


Misc 002: To Hell And Back...Again

by Rhion



Category: Heroes of Might and Magic (Video Games), Heroes of Might and Magic V
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raelag, a Warlock with a mysterious background, a fallen son of Tuidhana, the rebellious Dark Elf queen. Once the Dark Elves of Ygg-chall had been wild and great, and he has returned to reforge the scattered free clans. United under his banner, the Dark Elf must cut a swath through all that stands in his way to correct a terrible mistake of epic proportions.</p><p>Isabel, sole heir to the Greyhound Duchy within the Griffin Empire, is a noblewoman bent on defending her people from the demonic hordes of Kha-Beleth that seek to do her people harm. Marrying the Griffin Emperor Nicolai, she was widowed at the hands and fel magic of a Demon Lord. For all of Elrath, the Dragon god of Light, for the Griffin Empire, and most of all, for her people, Isabel is willing to do whatever it takes to banish the demons back to their hell realm of Sheogh. </p><p>But war is an uncertain game of chance, with high stakes and not even the supposed winners truly win. All will come away scarred, battered, perhaps even broken. The toll of war is to leave nothing untouched, unmarred, or fully intact. Healing may come for those who grasp it with both hands, just as they took up arms for the sake of duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raelag

**Author's Note:**

> There are some mentions of noncon in later chapters, but none depicted, only referenced. Trigger warnings will be in place during those chapters.

She was angry, he could tell. Justifiably so, he couldn’t fault her for that. War had changed Isabel, she was strident, hawkish, voice snapping and crackling like a harpy’s far more sharp than her usual. Granted, Isabel was strong willed, determined to do what was right in all things - and had a voice that could cut through a battlefield with ease. Shock and stress had added a different layer, causing her to be someone else. This was not the Isabel he had known, had watched, and worn many faces around her throughout most of her life. Agrael didn’t know this woman, and if he didn’t know for certain, absolutely certain, he would believe that she had been replaced with a false Isabel, a poor imposter. Biara would be about that unpleasant, mainly because the succubus was aware he favoured this human woman, and would have played the role of the harridan in false flesh.

...But war, sacrifice, fear - these could change a person. Isabel had never been meant for all out war, she hadn’t even truly been meant to be a queen. A noblewoman, a head of a House, a noble line, yes, she had been meant to be that and its attendant combats. Yet being a monarch carried far more weight, the weight of a vast nation, a people, something that could crush even the strongest and most certain, most loyal of individuals... This was not what she had been trained and raised for. So, she had changed, this mask, this...accusatory screeching, it wasn’t how Isabel truly was. 

Besides, he had much to answer for, so Agreal stood there, his one time natural face concealed by the demonic helm that had grown over his features. Features that had gone desperate and stoic under that red encasement. He weathered her anger as he promised with every ounce of sincerity, that he would do what he could to keep her safe for as long as she was under his care. That was after he offered to take her away from all this, to run away, to be as people untethered by duty - an offer she flatly refused. 

What else would any remotely sane person do, but refuse? She didn’t know him, not man before her, only the man who had ordered her foster mother’s death. A man who had slain hundreds of her people. A man who had manipulated her. Of course she refused, but he still had needed to offer, to beg her in his way to flee with him.

Why must it be so complicated? 

....

Biara shifted and the demonic guise melted into more pleasing elven forms, copying his racial affiliation as she ran a hand over the backs of his shoulders, “My Lord, you are tense,” the words were sultry and overly drawn out in that manipulative fashion of the ‘best’ - or worst, depending upon the person ranking them - succubi. 

The imp messenger had left in a bitter stench before Biara’s entrance, and Agrael didn’t doubt for a single moment that the succubus hadn’t done her best to listen in. “Kha-Beleth has set a new task. That is all you need know, for now, Biara.”

Exaggerated and elongated to the point of satire, Biara’s Sylvan chin hooked over his shoulder, her breath hot with the brimstone of Sheogh, “Of course, my Lord. How may I be of service to you?”

Agreal gave a light snort, derisive, but the distaste was easily hidden away by his next statement, “The prisoner is being properly seen to? Has she eaten, or has she thrown another wooden plate in a demon’s face once more?”

“The child doesn’t know how to appreciate the gravity of her situation,” Biara flinched away, cross and disgusted immediately, Agreal certain she was crossing her arms in a huff though he didn’t glance back to check. Much like a pouting little child, and he was glad for the fact he wasn’t facing her as his mouth quirked briefly. “She doesn’t appreciate anything a’tall, the spoilt little hussy.”

Finally turning from the camp table with its spread maps that he had been examining, “She’s mortal and our guest as well as a prisoner. The Demon Sovereign requires that she be delivered to him intact, sane, and unmolested for use in his plans. The Griffin queen requires food suitable for mortals and nothing so unsettling as the lesser demons burning her meals during delivery of them.”

“As you command, my Lord,” she quickly scrabbled into a deep bow of obeisance.

Turning away from her, he waved his red gauntleted hand, “See to it properly, Biara.”

There was no need for a following threat, as Agreal wasn’t known for leniency. No one failed him nor crossed him. At least, not more than once. 

...

Agreal had made his plan. The Griffin king, Nicolai, Isabel’s husband, was nearby, as were the loyal Godric and his daughter. Kha-Beleth had commanded for attacks elsewhere, and Agreal had planned accordingly. There was no way he could maintain custody of Isabel while working through the forces and launching the attacks, and he had no intention of trying. The more he listened to her sharp voice when she refused food, or would snarl, hiss, bite and kick, or strike out as soon as her hands were unbound...the more Agreal heard that, listened to that, the more his flesh crawled and danced beneath his armour. Agreal wanted to let her be, to release her, but he couldn’t just let her go. No, so he had made his plans.

If only Godric hadn’t returned so swiftly from the Silver Cities, Agreal could have just taken her and run... If she would just give him some sign of trust, he would sacrifice everything and take her anyway. But Agreal needed her cooperation - and he wouldn’t receive it, he knew that.

If one thing could ever be said of Isabel, it was that she was no meek follower of those she had no known reason to trust.

One last time he wanted to see her, even ragged and stressed as she was - no, especially because of that. Agreal needed that image to bolster him, to drive home that his decision was the best thing to do. There were so many guises he could wear for her in for the last meeting, ones that, once upon a time, had comforted her, or brought a smile to her face just upon seeing them. How many times had he watched her as a little girl, hopping and skipping over the roots of apple trees, picking up the blossoms, or scrambling up into the boughs, humming some song only she could hear? How many times had he been the farmhand who would quietly caution her against falling, and she would laugh at him, before jumping onto him - well, when she was still tiny, she had done that, then as she began to blossom, it had been her own feet that caught her... Until, once again, it was his arms that would catch her up and balance her, though the ground was no longer so far away as she attained a woman’s height. 

Agreal knew how Isabel _should_ be, how she _was_ , he knew her better than any other, had been her confidant, her teacher, her friend. Just as Isabel had been those things for him, no matter that he didn’t reveal his true troubles, but merely revealed and concealed what he could, in a manner that would be plausible for his multitude of guises. She used to come to him, help him with the work or tasks assigned to whichever guise he was wearing, talking or asking questions, or even just working alongside him quietly. That was Isabel, that was the woman he cared so deeply for. The woman, the girl, the person, he had safeguarded, for all this time - very nearly her whole life, nineteen years and some months of the twenty years she numbered, he had been present. 

Curtly he ordered the demons guarding Isabel’s tent away before entering. Her expression was grim, pinched, and she glowered at him, hiding the fear he could almost smell wafting off of her. If only...if only he dared to order his growing, organic and metal armour to recede. If only he could at least wear a more mortal face, maybe then she would take some comfort, some strength in that. But he couldn’t, she was one of the few people who could always read him, no matter what disguise he wore.

“What now, blackguard?” voice crackling, Isabel snapped, shifting to stand, the motion difficult as she rose from the cot, her bound hands and the hobble that she had forced them to use on her making it awkward.

But Isabel would meet troubles on her feet, or on horseback, whenever possible.

So, he sat on the small campstool, one of the little luxuries he had insisted upon. It wasn’t like the Griffin camp that it had been claimed from had any use for it any longer - they were dead, and gone onto their maker, their bodies filling the bellies of demons. “My demons have told me that you’ve not been eating or sleeping properly, Isabel.”

“ _Queen_ Isabel,” as she drew herself up straighter, shoulders squaring. 

Laying a gauntleted hand on the low table beside her untouched meal, Agreal used a weak firespell to warm it and the pot of tea with a quietly harsh incanted word. He didn’t need to look at her as he poured the brambleberry tea to know she was clinging to that title as though it were a lifeline. As though her title was all that stood between her and the hordes of Sheogh. 

“Please sit, Isabel,” for though he knew she was clinging to that blasted and useless title, Agreal couldn’t bring himself to put that distance between them. “Brambleberry tea - one of your favourites,” he encouraged, pushing the filled wooden cup across the narrow table. 

“How do you know that? Why would you even know that?” again, that shivering, shuddering, shaking uncertainty quavered ‘round the edges of her tone, the fullness of her lips trembling as though struggling to contain a wail. There was the doubt, so unsettled and uneven, that she sat heavily down upon the second camp stool, staring at him. “Demon, why do you torment me in this way?”

“A good soldier does as he is told, sacrifices without thought, Isabel, the consequences and plans are for leaders to trouble themselves with,” and he waved off her binds, the spell disappearing so that she would be able to feed herself unassisted. It was a measured risk, but her deep green eyes were vulnerable for the moment, her mental and emotional footing thrown off enough so that she wouldn’t automatically lash out. “There is a greater, longer war, that is waging, that you and I are just small pieces of, caught up for others’ reasons, rather than our own choices.”

Her full, deep mauve lips tugged and pursed into a grimace, fingers rubbing her reddened wrists, “There’s that word again - _soldier_. A mindless soldier who takes no responsibility for his own actions, is that what you are then, _soldier_?”

Not rising to the bait of her needling - Isabel was lashing out, fighting for some semblance of security, or at least to feel not so helpless, instead asking as he had upon her capture, “If I found a way free of this, would you trust me enough to come?”

Isabel’s long fingers had curled about the mug of tea, jaw tensing as she looked away from him, “I’ll never trust demon scum, no matter how much they protest they’re just a soldier following orders!”

Agreal didn’t speak again, simply watching her eat the meal that had been prepared for her. He was hungry himself, but it wasn’t much of a concern, and Biara would have something for him by the time he returned. Or he could always hunt something, in the end, it wasn’t important. When all of the food was gone, the teapot emptied, Agreal reached for Isabel’s hands before she could jerk away, and he uttered the guttural spell for her binds.

Firmly guiding her to the cot, “You should rest, it is a long march tomorrow to the safehouse where you shall be kept until we are ready to move once more.”

That got her attention and her gaze refocused on him, eyes narrowed. She said nothing, but the months since the first open volleys of the war had been released, had given her vital experience. Isabel wasn’t a classic tactician, it hadn’t been part of her education, yet she had a good head on her shoulders. Agreal left her then, certain she was debating how to make an escape. And he wanted her to escape, to keep attention divided long enough for him to find out just what Kha-Beleth wanted with her. Battlefields were risky, dangerous places, no matter how well Isabel could fight, something may happen to her. Agreal would just have to trust that Kha-Beleth’s plans for her meant she wouldn’t be overly harmed, at least by demonic forces, while Agreal planned to dig and counter the Demon Sovereign’s intent...at least insofar as it pertained to Isabel.

....

Just his bad luck, it had to be Nicolai on the battlefield. Nicolai who was quite good at killing demons and defending his kingdom. Agreal could respect that. He sat back, sending many of his troops against the human monarch, watched as both sides were decimated, uncaring of the demonic losses. The fewer of his original troops on hand, the fewer who could report to Kha-Beleth how Isabel had been captured, stored haphazardly so that she may escape, and that Agreal was ready to...delve. If only Godric hadn’t arrived so soon! If only...no, he would delve and ferret out the dark plans, for nothing in the dark could hide from him.

In easy waves, Agreal sacrificed the demons, steadily backing away. He did not wish to fight the Griffin king, as Nicolai was one person he could trust to watch Isabel’s back. Let the king carry the brunt of leadership as he was supposed to. Yet the damned fool, the heroic king, managed to break away with a small group of men. Men who were quickly slaughtered. And Agreal had to turn and face Nicolai. Why couldn’t he be _reasonable_ \- or at least somewhat sensible? - and have stayed back with the larger group of soldiers?

“Come Demon Lord, and I shall send you back to be cleansed by your fires!” shouted as he swung the glowing orb he had used moments before to dispatch almost all of the rest of Agreal’s remaining troops.

Agreal tensed, then sensed the energy wave was harmless beyond a reflexive recoil. “Not today, young king,” and Agreal would sigh over the stupidity of the young, yet there was nothing for it, he must do as he must do.

From behind the face of his helmet, Agreal grimaced. May Isabel never find out who had slain her husband, for she would never forget, let alone forgive, the one who had wronged her so very grievously. It was not as though Agreal had born the king any ill will, and, so long as Nicolai had treated Isabel well, Agreal would not have been angered at the marriage betwixt the two. ...If the marriage had ever been officially completed, that is. He was not a possessive or jealous man, there was no reason to be. Yet now, with Nicolai dead, little stood between Isabel and her own allies. Wonderful. 

Swiftly he left, he had work to do, and the faster he got it done, the faster he would be able to return and affect some positive outcome. 

....

Throwing the weight of his own magics behind Tieru’s, Agreal rooted out every spec of demonic strength within himself, bundled it up, and purged it. The beknighted red plate scales that had grown from his flesh like a carapace that could sink in and out of his skin upon his orders, were burned free, shriveling up to their very roots deep inside his body, down to the bone. Scorched inside out, Agreal’s throat was raw with the howling agony. Wisps of putrid ash poured out of him, hacked, coughed, chanted, just...expunged. 

In the end, even his faithful Trexie - by the Dark Mother, would he never get away from Erunia’s awful habit of naming mounts something so childish? - suffered through the change, her many years of being a warped thing, finally over. But they were as _babes_ , newborn, fledgling. All of the power amassed over centuries of war and learning were gone. All gone. He could feel it in the tender ache as he flexed his fingers, fingers that were long and bone white, unused to the light of the sun. If he attempted to cast any of the spells that were just on the edge of memory, his now fragile body would be unable to handle the forces necessary to channel them, and release a spell in its intended manner. And the only demonic ability he actually may miss - shapeshifting - well, that wasn’t ever going to be possible again. Eventually he may regain the ability over illusion and shadows that could provide a facsimile of shapeshifting, it was one of Malassa’s gifts to her children when she took them in...but it would not be the same.

Worst of all, the steady flutter in his breast that had existed for nearly twenty years, was gone, and Agreal was bereft, for he couldn’t feel the connection to her.

“Ah, there you are my boy,” Tieru praised, yet sounding worn out from their efforts. A hand clapped his tender shoulder, and Agreal growled at the impact, “You certainly cleaned up well! Still, yours is a face only a mother could love, but that’s how all Dark Elves tend to be.”

Eyebrow twitching, “And since Mother made her deal, I must say I’m glad I don’t wear twigs and squirrel skins any longer.”

Tieru’s expression sharpened, inspecting him, “You -” He drew in a quick breath, “Yes, I should have guessed, should have seen it, sensed it. Any word that was had, said you’d been killed... And that was when anyone could remember you at all.” The druid shook his head, “But I wouldn’t think you would have been drawn into _Sheogh_ after your demise... Never did seem to be type.”

Agreal dusted himself off, the last bits of ash fluffing away, “Nor am I the type to stand around on a windy island in the altogether. In spite of my gratitude for your assistance, I’ve no plan to ‘entertain’ you, so I’ll need some clothes.”

Later, his icy alabaster ravaged and scarred flesh was swathed neck to toe in sturdy black silks, the smoothness of its grain soothing upraised weals of fresh scar tissue. Ravenously he ate, devouring everything Tieru set down, all in a bid to replenish himself. He could sleep for days, weeks even, if given the chance, but food was more important.

As Agreal sucked meat from the drumstick he was eating, and snapped it in half to get at the marrow, Tieru snorted, “I remember when you were still at your mother’s breast - you were about as eager then.” Agreal didn’t reply, only grunted, so Tieru continued, “Tell me, Raelag, how did you come to be in service to the Demon Sovereign? And why turn away from him? Surely it can’t _really_ be because of some...human.”

“After Ygg-chall and my people were fully established in our ways, the wars overhead and below, finished and done, I was betrayed,” figuring he owed that much information to the meddling ancient. At least it kept the food coming, and he couldn’t help a strange pang in his chest when fragrant apple cider was poured into his cup. “In the wake of Mother’s death and the wars, I was too ambitious and sought unity for us all at Malassa’s behest. Sadly, I’m not my mother, and wasn’t up to the task or maintaining the situation even after I became king. Later, I came to realize that Sheogh was going to be a true problem. Yet I had no standing to do much about it.”

“So you...?” the druid trailed off, puzzled, wondering if he had committed suicide so that he could go to Sheogh.

Agreal drained his cup and refilled it again, before tucking back into shovelling the salad greens, one which was a lentil laden mass, and around mouthfuls, carefully spoken, but still, needing to sate his body’s demands for sustenance, “No, not all of Sheogh are born of dead souls. I went and offered myself up, to learn what made the demons work. Though I rose quickly and gained trust, time flows differently there. It’s inconsistent. Here, centuries passed or days. Sometimes months go by there, and only moments here. For what reason that is so, I don’t know. Which means, sadly, while trusted as useful, used to further Kha-Beleth’s goals, I wasn’t made privy to all of the reasons for those goals.” He waved the thigh of what tasted like squirrel, “But, in any event, I haven’t died yet, whatever life has seen fit to throw at me, I have overcome, or at least come out of it.”

“Ah, I see, and that would be why the Griffin Heart was unable to banish you,” nodding thoughtfully. “That does paint a very different picture. Are you ready then to take up your mother’s mantle once again, and lead your people?”

“If I must, I’ll do so, but only for so long as it’s necessary,” and settled back into his meal. “I’m tired of leading.”

Out came a battered bone pipe which was promptly stuffed with fragrant tobacco mixed with herbs, and lit. “Raelag, you are Tuidhana’s eldest son. Your brothers have long since faded to history, dead, deposed, or just drifted away. It was always you after her, there’s no one else. If your kind were still of Sylanna’s children, still of Irollen, it wouldn’t matter, your people would have their ruler.” Puffing away pensively, gaze gone inwards, “But they aren’t. Your people are dark, violent, cruel, and live in cold caves.”

“They’re not cold,” Agreal interjected, amused about the ancient’s accusations - why should Agreal be the one to counter him in his ignorance? Besides, it did have some truth. “Quite warm, there isn’t any weather to worry about... The women no longer have much of what you or I would call modesty, there’s no reason for it. Just the most vital bits are covered, often in something sharp and jagged - look, but don’t dare to touch.”

Tieru hummed and rumbled out a chuckle, “Not so different than that human queen, I wager.”

Sourly, “She wasn’t ever meant to bear that burden, especially not alone.”

“Really now, you’re _truly_ that enamoured of a human?” it was said with the same sort of tone and incredulity as someone asking if he were sexually attracted to dogs. “They have all the right parts, but - but Raelag. They are like animals, their lives are just brief blinks! Elf and human, it never works. Here I thought you had more sense than that.”

“Enough, old man, you get what you want out of this, my reasons aren’t supposed to impress you, and I’ve no need of your approval,” Agreal scowled. 

At least if most had forgotten him, they wouldn’t recall his penchant for human women in the first place. His harems had almost always been comprised of dark elf women, but he had frequently left for the surface in search of fuller breasts, wider hips, and muscular thighs, the vivaciousness of a human woman... They had sex for fun, for love, anger, lust, friendship, care... Dark elves mostly stuck to anger or procreation. Or manipulation. Humans, it was just something done with a laugh, a smile, and was mutual. Even human women who were paid for their services were far more enjoyable, because what was better than a softness covered muscular woman who delighted in the feel of a man between her thighs? Nothing, nothing was better than that.

Tieru just stared at him, “You really...”

“ _Enough_ , Tieru,” Agreal snapped, voice crackling with centuries of authority.

Thankfully the ancient druid fell silent, not completing the thought.

....

Like a babe, Raelag - having thrown off the old name he had carried for a few centuries - had to pace himself. Spells he had once known so well he could focus on their patterns and let fly with barely a sound or gesture, now required full concentration. In the game to become Clanlord of the Shadowbrand, Raelag had the knowledge, but not the strength any longer, to simply carry through. Once upon a time, by the Dark Mother when he was still a _Sylvan_ , he would have been able to plow through with nary a single troop loss, or sign of fatigue. Now? Now he wished only to eat and sleep, his muscles like jelly, his bones still aching horribly. Would that pain never recede? He hoped that the Rite of True Nature’s scars would fade, fill in, and disappear with time and increasing strength. 

When he thought of complaining inside the confines of his mind over the pain, or the loneliness, or - worst of all - the frustrated fatigue that kept him to what felt a snail’s pace, Raelag only had to think of Isabel. Kha-Beleth _wanted_ her for something. Something important, something to do with the Demon Messiah. Did he want her as a blood sacrifice? It was also possible she was to be perverted and tainted with the powers of Urgash and his chaos, twisting her into the Demon Messiah. Now that was an unbearable thought. But then why would her virginity be so important? Not that she was actually a virgin. No, she must be some sort of sacrifice, and even then, the blood or soul of a virgin was no more special than a harlot’s, it was really one in the same. A soul was a soul. 

There was little news of the surface lands above Ygg-chall, and for the moment, Raelag didn’t have the wherewithal to think about that or dig. So, instead, he began subjugating his people, bringing them to heel. Forging them into a weapon for him to use, for him to direct. In all these years, they had degenerated into fractious, unruly, shattered and self-serving clans within larger clans. They were pitiful in his eyes, for he had seen them when they were great. Mother had given them their freedom, but Raelag had made them _great_! Had made them powerful! He had pulled the Invisible Library from the darkest pits of Sheogh for their benefit, and they had been vast in the darkness, filled with the endless gulf of what was forbidden to others! And now...now they just fought over table scraps, like packs of wild dogs. They should be ashamed of themselves, humiliated, horrified at what they had become. 

They didn’t even _remember_ any of that, so much _lost_ along with their pride and power.

Raelag had flashes of those feelings each time he stamped out another cultist or had to resort to harsh methods of control of his people. Where was their pride? It wasn’t like he had been completely cut off from Ygg-chall while serving Sheogh, it was just that he hadn’t _lived_ first hand the sort of life his people did these days. 

...It made him feel tired, so very tired.

One of his few bits of peace, were when aboveground and an apple tree was found. Those who wished to curry his favour had begun to transplant the trees, so that there were at least several in each of the cities, garrisons, and towns. No one knew why he liked apples so much, and he wasn’t going to be informing them as to why, either. It was none of their business. He had gotten into the habit of carrying about at least a few dried apples, or their blossoms, with him at all times, as a reminder, a comfort, down away from the sun. Not that he missed the sun itself, no, he just missed...

Eyes closed as he lay on his bed, he held the spray of apple blossoms to his nose, inhaling their scent. Now who had become the flower-sniffing poet? Ah, but he at least was no poet, with no desire to become one either. Raelag did long for dancing green eyes, and the simple joys (more like annoyances at the time) of watching Isabel romp through grass. Maybe it was odd that he missed her being a little girl again, but maybe it wasn’t so strange. Human childhoods were so short! A couple handful of years, and then they were on their way to adolescence, which was a brief breakneck and hectic pause, before adulthood began. Yet she had been so happy then, even after her own tragedies. Maybe he had pitied her, seen the similarities - mother lost, father disinterested or abandoning the child to the care of others. Raelag had seen his youngest sibling, his sister Erunia, to some semblance of adulthood, as if he were her father, so he had some firsthand experience to draw upon. Where Erunia craved pretty baubles, things that shined or glittered, scintillating artful magics, and costly fabrics that had to be imported from above - Isabel had been far simpler. Rambunctious, inquisitive, always leaping upon the ‘adults’ around her as often as possible. Isabel wanted to sit atop someone’s shoulders or on their back, as her two-legged steed gallivanted. Rough and sturdy trews and tunics, sensible boots for her little girl feet, with colourful socks hidden away - or sometimes she would be in an oversized tunic, more of a dress, loosely belted, as she scampered about, barefoot, slipping and sliding in mud, or even cow patties, disgusting as that could be, she really hadn’t minded.

As the stablehand Cedric, Raelag had chased after her time and time again as she would abscond with a bevvy of foals, playing games of tag with the gangly creatures, as they were the only other ‘children’ about for playmates. She always helped clean them, brush them, and check their hooves, while keeping up a steady stream of their exploits, and in the end, she would give him a handful of apple blossoms, or an apple, or even just a bit of fresh, green sap smelling twigs, blinking her large eyes at him. Isabel had loved to pester him in that guise, with Cedric she had remained a little girl the longest, even into her earliest teens, coming to him with her troubles, or even just to sit, or muck the stables. With Edgar, the young, somewhat crippled squire turned farmhand, she had a friend who became more. Her first clumsy kiss had been pressed to his mouth as he had stood there, taken aback after having caught her from one of her frequent jumps from a tree limb. Isabel hadn’t cared that Edgar had poor sight in one eye, disgusting melted scars over one side of his face, that he limped from having been fully hamstringed and then healed (at least this was the story he had devised for that identity). No, Isabel had cared for Edgar as Edgar, and had held his hand, or brought him ‘specially made’ mince or fruit pies, a blush over her cheeks. 

Raelag missed that carefree, unworried form, when keeping her safe had been simple. Relatively at least. Back then, it had mostly been about keeping her from leaps too wild from trees, or even the rooftops of the stables into waiting arms or mounds of hay - or keeping her clean. By Malassa’s bile, was Isabel horribly dirty all the time, a thought that brought a smile to his face. Always rolling about in grass, tugging up a few hanks of it to rub over herself, face screwed up into a happy grin as she breathed in the loam and green smell. Oh yes, she was always squawking whenever someone had to catch her, pin her down, and scrub her face with a damp cloth, or when Beatrice would haul her off for a good dunking and washing because she had gotten into the mud again. 

Isabel turning from a girl into a woman - now that had been a feat of magic. Stunning as well, and Raelag hadn’t particularly known how he felt about that at the time. Now he looked back, and wished he had just...taken her away from it all. Grabbed some horses and left. Everyone would have just thought that some young noblewoman had run off with a farmhand, depending on which age Isabel had been at the time, of course. Nothing too exciting in spite of whatever troubles it would have caused. So many should haves, could haves, so much hindsight and backwards facing wisdom... It did no one any good.

Ylaya knocked upon the door to his bedroom, nestled within his simple quarters, her frequent entrance to his space a normal intrusion that usually meant she was delivering some set of information for him to look over later, “Clanlord? I must trouble you for a moment.”

Sitting up quickly, legs swinging from his bed, Raelag lay the small clump of apple blossoms aside, and began to tug on a shirt, covering the myriad molted and melted scars on his chest, arms and back. “I’m sure it will take more than a moment, whatever it is. Well, say on, what bit of the rabble has become temperamental again?”

Keen eyes took note of the sprig, but no questions came of it. “With as many warriors as have fallen these years, there is a call for new blood to be infused in ready and strong wombs.”

Brow quirking, “Then find a likely donor, surely there are plenty of soldiers of the Shadowbrand and Nightshard clans that have come to my banner who would find their pleasures in that way.”

“And they are, Clanlord,” Ylaya agreed. “But you’ve no consort, no wife, no partner. As such, it is expected that you also add your strength to the clan.”

“And I expect to die one day, it just won’t be today - the same as I won’t be spreading my seed about today. It will happen one day, perhaps,” if he was unlucky and had no say in it, “but it will happen when I choose for it to happen.”

“Not everyone can be so bold as to claim they can choose when death will strike them as well, Clanlord,” Ylaya watched him, shifting slowly.

Pinning her with a look, “It wouldn’t be with you. I’ve no wish to put any potential carriers of my blood in the hands of a zealot. A well meaning and loyal one or not, it doesn’t matter, it will not be happening with you, or any of your sister witches.” He waved a hand, as he rose, “Besides, think on this, Ylaya. We are at war - with the demons, with each other - what better target to manipulate or gain a hold on me by threatening a child, or the one carrying that child?”

“Of course, Clanlord,” Ylaya began to turn to leave, head ducking. “All of those reasons are -”

Raelag had caught her by the hand, “Good ones. Yet if you leave now, the rumourmongers will say I’ve not done as expected, that I don’t carry the burdens of the clan the way I should, excellent fodder for dissent. Dissent which we can ill afford.”

The Keeper of the Law frowned, her facial tattoos of devotion and rank moving with the motion, her light eyes flashing. Dark Elves didn’t touch one another very often, not anymore it seemed. Touch was an intimate act, meant for blood affiliation, children, or someone who you intended to lay with. Distantly, Raelag remembered it wasn’t always that way, remembered that even though he himself had always been aloof and standoffish, flinching at uninvited contact even from relatives, the rest of his people hadn’t been that way. Another symptom of how his people had fallen without Mother’s guidance or even his own. As to why Menan hadn’t done something (and surely, Menan had been as bad or worse than Eruina when it came to cuddling up to random people - even as an adult!!) to have kept their people together in his absence... No, he shouldn’t berate them, he was eldest, and had failed, why would his younger siblings have managed without guidance and love? 

Cautiously, Ylaya turned and faced him fully, a hand coming up to touch his cheek, “Shadya may be more to your liking.”

“Shadya is dumb as a rock, and ambitious as anything I have ever come across - I’d no sooner trust her in my bed for an evening, than I would leave her alone with my food,” he couldn’t help laughing. “She has her uses, varied as they are, but I learned long ago to not mix with my agents. Only with underlings far down the line, peers, or those completely outside of the group, my lesson was well learned.”

Not so long ago, actually, but that was between himself and no other.

The metal of her jewelry and belts ‘chingged’ against one another as she shifted closer, “No pawns.”

Taking her statement for agreement on being cautious, Raelag slid a hand around her tattooed, bare midriff, his other gesturing a low wind spell to slam his door closed, as her mouth found his. The feel of a woman was one of the simplest pleasures in all of life, and for all that his people tended to showcase their beauty, the garments truly were about as pleasant as acid poured into one’s eye after boring a nail through it. But Ylaya wasn’t wearing the customary spiked girdle, vambraces, and easily dangerous styles typical of Ygg-chall. What cumbersome items there were, fell and clattered to the floor quickly under her own hands, as his were busy running over smooth, rounded shoulders, over the long slope of rapidly bared spine, as he tasted and tested the slickness of her mouth.

Naked, even her headdress removed and set aside, Ylaya moved to his bed, and sat upon its edge, her long muscular legs encased - and Raelag could have sworn. He must have made a face, for the Keeper of the Law laughed, _actually **laughed**_. It wasn’t a sound he had heard before from her, and was one that was rare to hear in his life outside of his own, frequently very dark, sense of humour. Ruefully he fell to squat and begin working on the unwieldy, unnecessarily complex, boots that were many elven women’s favourite style of footwear. 

Long nails scratched over his scalp lightly, Ylaya’s fingers passing through his hair, “You looked like a boy who had his favourite toy break before he could play with it, just now.”

Loosening the fasteners and beginning to tug at the boot, wiggling it free very slowly, “Because these are the most -” he grunted softly, “impractical things I’ve ever seen a woman wear. And I’ve seen corsets and headwear that make hunting bear with a spoon seem intelligent.” Another grunt and he finally got the first boot free, “Mph. Next time a woman comes to me wearing these, I’ll take it to mean she has no actual desire for me. Or at least no intention of bedding me at the time.”

“You’ve not much room to complain, you’re still fully dressed,” Ylaya protested, plucking at his shirt.

Sparing her a chuckle, Raelag tipped his head back to capture her mouth, hands still fussing with the second boot. It was convenient, as her thighs spread further, one leg stroking along his side and back. Perhaps it was awkward, then again, when wasn’t sex awkward? All limbs and fluids; yet for all that, it was something to not be missed out on when good chances presented themselves. Second boot gone, Raelag paused long enough to let Ylaya finish freeing him of his hastily donned shirt, and in moments, the sensation of her smooth skin was once more under his palms. Instead of the scratching he was more accustomed to, the pads of her fingers moved over the ravaged white flesh of his back and shoulders, the touch cool against the fevered heat the network of lines that denoted where plates had once grown. In that moment, Raelag appreciated Ylaya’s presence more than he had thought he would. There was no talk over how long it had been, who wanted what, whom missed whom, no questions, no answers - there was no need. Just the taste of musk and salt as she parted her lips so he could lap at her folds, his senses filled with her fingers in his hair, urging him this way or that, as silken flesh moved under his lips and tongue.

As a moan of completion accompanied undulating, rocking hips against his face, Raelag snickered briefly, garnering a deeper moan from the Keeper. A last long sucking lick and he broke free, his light trews pushed down and away as he climbed onto the bed beside Ylaya. Smooth and dry, the warmth of her ice white flesh called to him, as his must call to her if the firm push on his shoulders was any indication, her lips sought out one of his flat almost colourless nipples, and he hissed at the tickle of her tongue. Briefly he felt odd, seeing himself as a pale dark elf, rather than a hairy chested human with the swarthy skin of a Griffin man, but the sensation was fleeting, overcome by searing heat and moisture along his shaft as Ylaya ground along the underside of his straining manhood. 

With a hoarse groan, Raelag grasped Ylaya’s rolling hips so he could slide up and into her soaked entrance, and he suffered the pleasant pain of her teeth in his jaw. It was fast, hard, and protracted, as soon as he felt her attain another muscle fluttering release, Raelag had gained a good hold on her lithe frame, and rolled them over, to thrust against her giving body, plumbing the depths of her sex. Only short bites of nails into his back, shoulders, hips or buttocks came, usually as she arched against him in a gasp, the pace of her churning hips stuttering to a ragged halt. Withdrawing as his own orgasm slammed him down, Raelag growled and ground against the soft, furry lips of her womanhood, before pressing back in, careless. A swift spell could be used to make certain of the situation later, for now, he needed this act of sweat slicked limbs and heightened flushes as blood rushed about inside veins, hearts pounding, as both of them shuddered and strained. 

Drained and sore in one of the better ways possible, Raelag flung out an arm, hand going to grasp at the usual pitcher of ice cold water he kept near to hand. Beside him, draped half over his torso and legs, Ylaya stretched, a rolling sound pulled from her of satisfaction, tattooed limbs covered in washed out emeralds and ebony. Massaging one of her nearby feet as he pushed it away from his shoulder, and wound up with a rather nice, but sloppy, view momentarily before she rolled free.

Long, wild, white locks were pushed away from her face, “I have not seen scars of this type before,” as her other hand moved along his damp inner thigh. “They are at measured intervals, very sensitive to the touch -” which she demonstrated, the muscle jumping unbidden and he winced as the sharper point of a nail travelled it, “- and pain you. They’re clearly not ones for beauty, and are like nothing I can think of.”

“They’re recent, but I did choose them,” he shrugged, sitting up slowly with a grunt. He had chosen them for the sake of apple blossoms and green eyes, and would go through it again if necessary. 

“You come from parts unknown, Clanlord, unaware of our laws, yet you are one of us, even as you speak in ways that mark you as familiar with different times,” she frowned curiously. “Who are you, Clanlord? Really?”

“A child of Tuidhana, as we all are, I had only been away for a long time, to have returned to Ygg-chall and find my people...so,” Raelag gave a sardonic snort. “I remember when we were great, when we were one, and fought all who tried to conquer us, we, the free clans. Once, we were mighty. Look how far you have all fallen, it would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. Where are the Faceless? Where are our panthers? Manticores? Where are the mighty riders? Our sorcerers of shadow with their unblinking, black eyes, who hear Malassa’s voice? I see only ragged beggars, hungry for someone to throw them a few alms in their bowls. Tuidhana would be disgusted with this fate. Did our parents fight, bleed, die, and do all that they did to give us a chance at _freedom_ for this farce?” He couldn’t help a sneer, not directed at her, but out towards the town at large, “The humans who live on the coasts have a phrase for what we have become. We have become crabs in a bucket, yanking down and devouring any who may actually unify or lead us to continued freedom, maybe even back greatness.”

Ylaya’s brow furrowed, digesting the information. Raelag didn’t care, and got up to make himself a pot of tea. The motions were familiar, a bit of dried apple, some of the dried blossoms, and the frost mint that grew in the caverns of Ygg-chall, it was a concession, a commodity, that he had sought out even in the Griffin Empire. His imp contacts during those years would fetch him large sacks of the frost mint or the fireberries native to the dark and warmth of Ygg-chall. Brambleberry tea was almost as good, but not anything present, likely it would be months before he had something Isabel would find so pleasing as that on hand.

Finally, “You speak as though you’ve heard Malassa’s voice yourself.”

Returning with the still steeping tea, “I’ve offered up as many prayers to her as I have to Sylanna. I’ve killed and sacrificed in her name, but I have no fear of her. There is no reason for me to, she knows me, as she knows all that is in the deep and dark.” It was a fond remembrance, one of his youthful foolishness, “Once, I had brought her a stag, old habits die hard, as they say. She wasn’t particularly happy with me, and I was thrown to one side of the cavern by her great tail. I believe she was more amused by my swearing at her - how dare I do such a thing! The Faceless would never do that! So staid.”

“Erunia’s clans are the only ones you’ve not looked towards nor courted,” the Keeper of the Law murmurred. “You fear she would know who you truly are. And she would demand to know why you abandoned us. For if you look around and say how far we’ve fallen, that we are mockeries of what we were - then you should bear a large measure of that shame, Raelag.” Her tone was frosty the way only the self righteous could manage, “You must be a footnote in our young history, a coward who left all of us behind, and now returns.”

Unbothered by her accusation, he held out his cup of tea after having refilled it, “I would counter that, and say I was a man betrayed on all sides, who then went where Malassa told me to go. To infiltrate what none of you ever would have survived. How else would I have returned with such knowledge of how dangerous the demons truly are?”

That earned him a few blinks, unsettled, she looked at his naked form again, and he pressed the cup to her hand as the implications he had laid out for her added up. “You - you were an agent within Sheogh? A demon, you became a demon! This -” rolling up to her knees, palm sliding over the scars, “this was your -”

“Prison, my carapace, my armour. The power of Urgash took all of what I could do as Malassa’s devoted son, the illusions all of us are capable of casting, and magnified it. Shapeshifting became as child’s play,” he shrugged once more, and Raelag took the cup from her since she wasn’t drinking. “The ultimate game of intrigue and backroom dealing. So, daughter of Malassa, would you have gone into Sheogh, served the Demon Sovereign, killed hundreds of thousands of people over the last several centuries in his name, to earn his trust, and learn of his plans? No, I think not, none of you are desperate enough to sacrifice so much. Dying or killing are the easy part.”

There was flashing in her eyes, like the swirling cosmos stars that were in the cupped wings of Malassa, and as fast as that, the dance of lights ended. But it was the look of one who had found religion, the devoted fanaticism of a zealot who had found a living heir of her messiah. Raelag had always felt distaste when others looked at him like that. At least she was more self-possessed than most. If she began grovelling however, he would likely strike her to get on her feet and stand as a dark elf rather than a worm at his feet.

“Malassa tests the faithful in many ways,” Ylaya agreed, her bearing having returned to attempts at giving comfort. Once more she stroked her hands over his chest and down his arms, “So, you didn’t fail your people, we failed you. That is the source of your anger?”

Leaning to one side, Raelag tapped one of the glowing fairy lights, the bioluminescent globes going dim in a cascade, “The Dark Elves didn’t fail me, they failed themselves. There is too much infighting and self-mutilation within our ranks, no stability. Of course they have degenerated, lost their way. In the end, I’m one man, Ylaya, and can carry them so far. If you all don’t grow up, then I fear we will all fade away, as you said it, a footnote in history. A footnote in history, of a selfish, destructive, and foolish people, who lived too shortly to affect the world at all, who would die and leave their dragon unworshiped. And all because we were too stupid, too greedy, to know how to maintain balance within ourselves.”


	2. Raelag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this are predominantly Isabel chapters thus far.

Raelag glanced up at the sky overhead, lids narrowed at the harsh light of the sun. 

The world above wasn’t really to his liking. And if he continued to repeat that, he may believe it fully at some point. Instead, if he was being truthful, he loved the world above and its many landscapes, just as much as he loved the shades of darkness that was the under realm. He was as comfortable in the light of day as he was comfortable in the deepest, darkest, depths where no sun had ever shown, not even a dustmote that had kissed the light of fresh air and sky. However, his _eyes_ were a different matter entirely. They most certainly didn’t like the sun, the alterations of Malassa’s touch were heavy. He also may have missed the fact that his flesh once had some colour to it, instead of being the same shade as a blushing gibbous moon. 

Some enterprising soul had force-grown an orchard above the ghost town of Halris in the intervening years since he had last seen the place, and he sat now nestled in the roots of a peach tree. The whole place was covered in plants, with fountains and burbling brooks. It was something straight out of a petulant Sylvan florist’s wet dream. And here his pale, easily scorched and blinded self, was spending time. Isabel would love it. Distantly, in the halls of memory, he could almost hear her laughter, and if he closed his eyes, he could fool himself into thinking she was just on the other side of the tree, reading over her lessons in some ‘borrowed’ book. 

Of all the sacrifices he had gone through in his life, this separation was the worst. Yet if he did not gather a large and powerful force, he would be unable to throw off the demon hordes that sought her. Now she was a queen, a solitary monarch - would she listen to a mad dark elf bringing tidings of war and horror beyond what she had already witnessed? 

If only he had a piece of her still, a lock of hair, a scrap of clothing... He would be able to scry her out in the plentiful water. Instead he could feel her, feel the pull and draw of her general direction - if he concentrated. His senses and magical skills had been returning swiftly with the endless battles, and now, finally, he was beginning to be able to sense Isabel once more. It provided Raelag with some relief. Once, he used to be able to feel her heart and its different beats, almost as though her heart was inside his own breast. The breath in her lungs, if he had focused, was the sensation of breath in his own. All because Kha-Beleth had ordered him to protect her, keep her safe from all harm, guard her above all things... When he had seen that young babe in the nursery cradle, just a guard passing through to check to see that all was well, as any dutiful guard in a noble house would do, Raelag had realized how tiny, frail, and completely easy to destroy, a human babe was.

...Any babe for that matter, but Raelag had almost no contact with the noisy creatures before that, so he hadn’t known beyond an intellectual state how delicate they were. That first night, he had returned, cloaked in shadow, a spell of sleep ensuring the nanny and wetnurse would remain asleep, as he went in to truly inspect Isabel. He hadn’t dared risk a sleep spell on her to keep her docile, instead, he had dusted off old lessons in the old Sylvan day to day magics that coaxed the flora and fauna of Irollan to fit the elves’ many needs. Questing dewdrops of his magic had begun seeping into the newborn human child, applied almost nightly, and then, daily, when she had become rambunctious and active, fit to be around other people. That had meant he didn’t need to hide contact with her, he had taken up being an instructor, so had an excuse to be nearby so often. Often enough for him to continue adding a drop here, a drop there, infusing her head to toe with the magical knowledge that had once understood the intimacies of nature and life. He, Raelag, as Agreal, a prince of Sheogh, with the magical schools and forces of three different major factions, applied them as a painter with a brush made of a single hair. Raelag had suspected Kha-Beleth wanted Isabel for a foothold in the empire in some fashion, and what better agent than to have one who would carry a more than pitifully short human span of years? It would have been too easy to rush, causing obviously unnatural changes. He had been as careful as possible, blowing upon the droplets to gather and pool, taking each slow, creeping step in improving a fragile human into something more suited to a real life, and hadn’t applied any of the actual forces of Urgash to Isabel, instead only using it for fuel to bolster the other skills he possessed.

Raelag had never counted upon the side-effects, his awareness of her, like a small piece of warmth nestled deep inside his breast. At first, back then, Raelag had wondered if it was similar to how a woman would feel, carrying a babe. Not that he would have known what any of that would have been like, he hadn’t a paternal bone in his body, beyond caring for his people and Erunia, that had been the limit. With Isabel, Raelag had remained aloof as he had with his brothers, but, like Erunia, she wasn’t having any of that. What without knowing why when her heart was beating too fast that it was fear, anger, pain, or exhilaration, it was difficult to not feel drawn to the fluttering life to be certain of its security. 

Maybe that influence was why the apple orchard had meant so much to Isabel, which in turn was why he was sitting under some damn tree like a tree shagging pixie. 

Shadya approached, the occasional hissing curse at a turned ankle, the usually graceful warlock ungainly on foot and in the aboveground, loamy and knotted root covered ground. Served her right - her and every other dark elf woman - who thought such foolish footwear was a good idea. ...Maybe his standards were a bit off, considering the fact that Mother and Erunia had always managed, no matter what outre encasement of metal and leather they wore, to be graceful, appearing to glide. Honestly, Raelag was waiting to hear Shadya fall face flat, now _that_ would be some screeching. Probably result in fire blasted trees, which was a thought that displeased him. 

Wonderful, he really was becoming one of those damnable, dirt worshiping florists.

His currently favoured second in command field commander rounded the tree, a hand on its trunk for balance, “Clanlord, none knew where you’d disappeared to.”

Head resting on the trunk, Raelag gazed up through the branches at the filtered light through hooded lids, “I wasn’t aware that I required minding. Shall you tell me it is time for my nap, Shadya?”

She sighed, looking around, “You’re thinking of ‘her’, aren’t you, Clanlord?”

Inside he went utterly still. “Her?”

“Or maybe it’s a ‘him’,” Shadya shrugged, pacing out away from the tangle enough for more even footing, a hand up to shield her eyes from the bright light overhead. “I’ve watched you, Clanlord, and have been with you for many battles. Nothing passes your lips of your past or motivations, but you’re a man pining after something. Usually it’s a person in these situations.” 

Her words struck close enough that he opted to pay attention, while continuing to seem disinterested. “Interesting theory, if it were true. It’s far more likely I remember being one of Sylanna’s children, and beyond the bitterness of her standing by idly as our brothers ravaged us, she had once given us all strength. Or, just a thought -” lips twitching, “maybe I just like the solitude of greenery, for what sane dark elf would waste his time above simply breathing in the smell of trees? It’s quite possible as one of the first ones converted to Malassa’s dark embrace, that my mind is more sideways than most.”

“Clanlord, you’re truly so old?” that bit of information was like a juicy sweet, an almost overripe peach in the hand held out to an eager child, and Shadya had turned, going to her knees a hand on the ground as her eyes glowed with the hunger for knowledge of him, any piece of information to use or keep back as barter or weapon. “Most of the old ones from the foundation are dead in wars and intrigue, lives taken in service to Malassa.”

“Call me old? Oh, don’t take my vanity into account,” Raelag barked a laugh, as he cupped his hand at one of the riper peaches overhead, the light gust of wind shooting from his hand jostling it loose and he nimbly caught it with a lazy flick of fingers. Inspecting it briefly, “I was barely a man when we left, as Arniel proclaimed his greed to all of us. Just on the cusp, teetering on the edge, a single shifting leaf landing upon my head would have me tumbling into true adulthood.” He bit the crisp flesh of the fuzzy peach, sucking the juice free, and as he chewed thoughtfully, elbow on an upturned knee, “That irritating between phase when no one takes you seriously, when you wish to go out and change the world, knowing that you can do anything if people would but _listen_ to your boundless wisdom and clarity of vision... Mmn, I am in my prime now, but old compared to most of us alive these days. Fitting, we are a young race, a young people, impetuous and angry, certain that we shall make ourselves be heard - we as a people, are as I was when we left Irollen, yet still lived in the above, under the canopy of trees, listening to the song of the earth, before Malassa opened our eyes to the endless beauty of the deep night.”

Daring much, the warlock lay a hand on his other knee, scooting closer, “And this is why you seek to unite us with such fitting rage?”

Looking at her mildly, “If you think I am angry, then you’ve no understanding of the word. My anger drained away long ago. It’s a useless emotion to me. The anger of others serves my purposes far better. Now,” he squinted at the canopy, and another skillful, highly focused blast, brought down another peach, “you truly should try one, they’re more pleasant than the sweet fungus that we sometimes find.”

Satisfied he had diverted her from what he was truly thinking of - Isabel - Raelag returned to relaxing, ignoring Shadya beyond deflecting her periodic questions. She was seeking to ingratiate herself, when he had already chosen who he would trust, insomuch as he could trust any of them, and that was Ylaya. Let Shadya expend her energy on this seeking of hers to understand his motives, to know him, to earn his trust - it meant later, if he had to kill her, she would be worn out and misinformed. Raelag didn’t trust anyone so eager to please, which he had not learned young enough to save himself from betrayals and servitude to Kha-Beleth. No conniving strumpet was going to get the better of him again.

Eventually she got the picture that he was in no mood for her presence, and left, allowing Raelag to fully relax once more. Senses extending deep within himself, he followed the old trails, the gossamer threads that reached out like the web of a spider, towards Isabel. He never had been able to sense anything so definite from her as emotion, only her heartbeat, the rate of her breathing, her pulse. It had led to a few accidents when she was very young, as there was no way to differentiate between happy exhilaration and terror or pain with the limited amount of information he could gather from her. As a babe and young girl, that really hadn’t been a very good situation. Like the one time when her heart, pulse, and breathing had gone utterly gasping mad, shuddering and shaking, causing him to drop all he had been doing on the Greyhound estate to race to her nursery...to find the toddler being thrown playfully up in the air by her father. Now that hadn’t been awkward at all. A sweaty guard having obviously halted in the midst of a training session, to go at speed to the nursery... No, not awkward in the least, it was also _very_ easy to explain. 

Actually it wasn’t, and even now he couldn’t help chuckling at the irony, at the comical level of irritation he had felt back then.

...He had had to chalk it up to border patrol fatigue, a paranoia...and then had to discard that guise. Conveniently, it was around the same time as Isabel’s mother had died, sending the entire Greyhound House into disarray and chaos. Isabel had gone from being a very cheery baby and toddler to an extremely upset three year old in the blink of an eye. Because of the loss of Lady Greyhound, the aristocratic House had become strangely hollow, an empty shell of itself, no place for a child to be. Lord Greyhound had ignored Isabel, and by the time that the summer sickness had struck the manor, slaying many there, decimating the ranks, the House had been run on a skeleton crew. Isabel’s nanny and former wetnurse had died, many of the soldiers and guards, until a home that had held several hundred people, was whittled down to dozens. It was in that aftermath that Isabel had been sent to Beatrice’s abbey, Raelag in the danced and made up flesh of Cedric the former cavalrymen as one of her guards. 

Once again able to feel Isabel in that way, Raelag modulated his breathing to to fill in the spaces where her exhales existed, his heart matching the rhythm and complementing hers. This was the closest he could be to her, and it was more than enough. Offering up a silent prayer to Malassa, that the shadows would confuse the enemies who would aim blades, magic, and arrows at Isabel, and another prayer to Sylanna that the earth would provide Isabel with solid footing to aid her in her endeavours. Asha’s children would have to guard her back for the moment.

...

His old clan, the Soulscar, was being ground down under the boots, blades, arrows, whips, and spells, of his troops. A smouldering patch on his spelled dragonhide and minotaur leather armour was an unpleasant afterburn only slightly buffered by his thick silk clothes. Raelag growled as the demon bolt tried to burrow in deeper, calling out to the still raw, even more than a year later, evidence of his former service to Kha-Beleth. Trexie’s head shook, weaving side to side, angry as she too had taken bolts and felt the unwanted sting. 

He never should have allowed Sylsai to claim the Soulscar. Look at the filthy cultists, their corpses spread out around him, and the sulfur stench of Sheogh allies. Oh yes, Raelag would stamp and purge the taint from his people. The last living noble of this branch was brought before him, and Raelag considered his wide and wild repertoire of spells and curses carefully. Malassa’s embrace was infusing him more of late, the longer he was freed of Urgash, the more the gradients of darkness became clear to his gaze. The aether of nothingness danced betwixt his fingers, one from the other, and back again, and the smile on his face was made of something that was worse than the absence of all light, life, and joy. A triphammer shadow beat in his chest, and like that, the vacancy of all things was gone from him. He was once more fully himself, the elder essence receding under the onslaught of Isabel’s pulse.

“You! I _know_ you!”

“ _Silence_! Not another word,” Raelag curled his hand in a grasping motion, seeing the tattered links to their Dark Mother, and he yanked on them, eliciting an agonized scream. “Tell me something, _where_ is the crimson mirror?”

“I’ll never tell you!” the elf recognized him from long ago, but Raelag didn’t recognize him. Why should he recall every bootlick he had ever known?

Chuckling, “Really now, how would you like to have your soul bound to a leper’s cloak?”

“ _Never_!” howling as Raelag twisted and flexed the shadows through the cultist’s veins, until blood burst in a froth from his mouth, painting teeth black in the lambent purple and blue glow of the cavern.

“You wish to spend eternity rubbing against bare, diseased flesh, intimately?” already drawing on the ancient darkness that inundated the caverns, the pools of blood of the sacrificed and culled, to change the cultist, ragged holes exploding into motheaten anguish over the sallow flesh. 

Gasping, twisting, and falling down, to flail like a fish out of water amongst the mountain of dead, the entrails a slick smacking sound, an endless music in the dark to please Malassa. Body heaving and jerking in seizures as Raelag watched, the cruel smile returned to him, to punish the unworthy, those who had dared to abandon their loving Dragon. This was one of those who would sell their people for false promises, and endless slavery, turn away from Malassa’s embrace - and ultimately, wreak havoc not just upon the Dark Elves, the rest of Ashan, but would aid and abet those who would harm _Isabel_. Raelag wouldn’t stand for it.

He had once been considered a kind man, no longer could he afford to be, it was a hard lesson.

With a broken scream, “Behind the idol of Kha-Beleth! Behind the idol of Kha-Beleth!”

Warmly he praised and gave his mercy as an ear shattering screech rent the air, “Good then. I’ll make it...quick.” 

Swinging down from Trexie’s back, his boots impacted the cavern floor, a puddle of offal splashing. Wet drops came down from overhead, and he raised a brow. So that was where some of the bodies went. Overhead, stalactites were adorned with the writhing, their blood providing a few thick rain droplets. Lazy passes and Raelag pulled on everything that made him a Dark Elf, the shadows, the shades, the darkness, the blood and all the bits and pieces, dark fire blazing in ropes from his hands to yank the corpses free. Mostly they were an offering to Malassa, as phenomenal heat burst from his fingers in heinous gouts to devour those before him, their ash pleasing to Malassa. But there was also a part of the offering that went to Isabel, for he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her, and Malassa certainly wouldn’t have had such a grand hall of dead betrayers to honour her divinity if it weren’t for Isabel.

Shadya made a face, “So much filth.”

“Oh, don’t get squeamish on me now, Shadya,” he laughed at her, motioning for her to follow. “The lizards won’t fit through the doors with us upon their backs. Come now and see how a true Warlock works.”

Ylaya was also quick to follow, uncaring for the turbulent fluff of ash that puffed with each step. Shadya followed with less eagerness, but she followed as he had commanded. Which was as it should be.

Ylaya’s displeasure was on open display, “The Dark Mother’s hall, defiled. It will need...purification.”

Raelag waved a hand, “Any adults who don’t wish to serve me may serve with their deaths, and may it cleanse away the demon stench. Maybe Malassa will even accept their souls, but I care not.”

The Arbiter smiled briefly, “You are a most dutiful son of Malassa. May she reward you well for your service and devotion.”

“May she reward me with a good night’s sleep, and the tools to be rid of more demons,” Raelag snorted. “Practical things, not words, I’m sick of words.”

Though he would take a promise of Isabel and her safety above other offerings, and that was the one he tendered as prayer.

....

Raelag felt Malassa as he hadn’t felt her in...in so very, very long. She infused him, suffused him, buoyed him when he was exhausted, lifting him up, and granted him power. Real power, power the likes of which he hadn’t felt since the crusade of the free clans to gain Konos as a home. Konos - the homeland, the capital, the bones of which held the Invisible Library at its very heart. When he was Malassa’s son, her messenger, her force in mortal living flesh of man. Konos, the place he had built, yanking it from Sheogh, freeing it and its forbidden knowledge, its secrets tithed to Malassa and her daughters and sons, the lessor dragons of the Onyx Circle. 

It seemed he had become her champion once more, and Raelag wondered at how she would dig her claws into him, her teeth rend his flesh from bone, her tail coil and crush him. For her help was not without price, and he was only a champion so long as he was forced to it. She would not let him go so easily as he would wish. 

Demon armies fell before his might, demon armies ground to naught but thick splatter under his boots. Raelag kept Torgruhl busy scraping the bottoms of his shoes frequently. Fighting, dying, and serving - it was what the minotaurs were meant for. He would have to see he rewarded the beastman well for such loyal service, however, for he was a beneficent lord. 

Heart leaping into his throat, Raelag saw Veyer go for Isabel, cornering her at the last, and he yanked. He pulled, he intoned words never meant for living mouths, spat the words free, just as she fended off another of the monstrously oversized demon’s attacks. With shield, with sword, and a mighty fist of light, she held him back, and just as Raelag’s spell was completed, she lopped off the demon lord’s head, while the rest of his body was obliterated into absolute nothingness.

Drained from the ancient spell, the words out of his mouth sprang forth against his will, “Are you hurt?”

“Not at all, thanks to you,” and it was the measured ease of the woman he knew. “Pardon my surprise, but I did not expect help from a host of Dark Elves.”

Urging Trexie forward, closer to Isabel, and he felt her vitals return to ease and normalcy, to a state Raelag hadn’t felt from her in, oh, what was it now? Two years? “The ways of Malassa are mysterious indeed. I am Raelag, Clanlord of Ygg-chall.”

Covered in dirt, sweat, and general battlefield grime, Isabel removed her helm, and smiled as her sensible, cropped auburn hair was revealed in its frayed and partially loose ponytail, “You have the thanks of the Griffin Empire, Clanlord. I am -”

“Queen Isabel, I know you,” so many layers to the words that surely anyone would hear the longing in his voice, but he didn’t care. 

Interrupting the private moment, the clopping of a dark steed, and one of the Spider Goddess worshipers spoke, his voice dripping scorn and superiority, “Well then, thanks to all then, and we must be on our way. We have important business.”

And like that the spell of relief was shattered. Urgently, “Wait! The queen cannot go. She is in danger!”

“Danger? Here? Preposterous!” the necromancer dismissed him. 

“Hear me out!” Raelag demanded, as was his right after the arduous fight and the sacrifice of many soldiers on this battlefield alone, not even counting the many others that and been lost earlier. “I would not have come so far, leading an army, if I did not have a good reason.”

Yes, that got Isabel’s attention focused back on him and away from the necromancer’s glamour. A gauntleted hand held towards the mage, “A moment, Markal.” Deep green eyes examined him intently, and Raelag relished their weight. She could read him, had always been able to read him, she would see he spoke truth from his true mouth, his true face. “What did you say? I am in danger?”

Relieved, Raelag shifted in the complex saddle, setting his staff into its holster. “Yes, this is the second time that a demon army has come to the heart of the Griffin Empire,” and he pleaded with her using every ounce of himself, to listen, to hear, to believe, “both times, they came for you, Isabel.”

Markal’s smarmy, onerous little bootlick voice oozed, “Ignore him, my queen! He sounds like a madman.”

“Mad you say?” Raelag snarled, angered and ready to strike the unclean Markal from the world, the nether gathering at his fist. “Mad for trying to figure out Kha-Beleth’s intentions?”

Lips pursing, Isabel eyed the spell he had readied, and Raelag quickly allowed it to dissipate, her eyes swinging up to his face once more, brow furrowed with thought. “There can be truth in madness, Markal.”

Which was true. Last time Raelag checked, he was no more mad than usual, which wasn’t much. Or maybe it was a great deal, because all of his thoughts were on how to put himself between Isabel and Kha-Beleth’s plans for her. Certainly that wasn’t the hallmark of a healthy mind. Not that he cared. Besides, when was anything important done by a ‘healthy’ mind? Mother had made her deal with the Faceless and Malassa out of desperation, anger, and fear - those weren’t healthy mindsets, now were they? Love, love was _not_ a healthy mindset, and it really, truly, didn’t matter. Raelag would step before the hordes and Isabel with nary a thought, though he would likely be certain there was a large army under his own command between them and the demons... Mostly because he wished to live to see Isabel safe and sound.

“Lady,” cajoling, “Queen Isabel, Kha-Beleth and the demons, are after you, and only you. You must come with me. Bring your guards, if you wish. The journey is long, but safe, through the lands of Irollen.”

Oh, he would show her Irollen’s beauty, and she would wish to stay, but maybe she would settle for frequent visits. The trees and plants, the very nature and creatures, they would tempt her, call to her, for had Isabel not always loved the trees? Why, he would call for a unicorn, surely at least _one_ would tolerate his presence, sense that he was once of that place, and would allow Isabel to see up close and personal just how lovely they were. And then he would take her to Ygg-chall, take her to Halris, where it would be safe. They would dig in and he would send troops to aid the Griffin Empire against the demons. Even Alaron would have to find the stones, the courage (and now that was a laughable thought, the old man, having courage?) to muster Irollen to full battle. Then, when the dust had settled, Raelag would go with Isabel wherever she pleased, anywhere, she had only but to pick a direction. Or they could remain in Ygg-chall, they would work together and she would see the beauty in the deep caverns, he would form a dark forest filled with her favourite apples grown from cuttings collected from the old abbey’s orchard.

“Queen Isabel is going to the Hall of Heroes, to recall her husband’s spirit and restore her kingdom,” the ugly voice cutting through the dark beauty Raelag’s mind had fantasized in that all too brief moment of daydream. “The ravings of Dark Elves, sadly,” and the way it was said that it wasn’t sad at all, “are of somewhat less importance.”

Then and there, Raelag debated kidnapping Isabel once again. He should do so, he truly should, but he wanted, no, he needed, her trust. Malassa’s bile, he was such a fool! Immediately he began searching through the myriad of malformed and unnatural cocoon shields around Markal, seeking out a chink in the armour. Raelag found it formidable, and his mind scrambled for something, anything, to unravel the unclean thing.

She must have sensed his rage, for Isabel’s words reached him through the fog of shadows rising up to swirl in his eyes, “I apologize for Markal’s tone, but he is right. We’ve done much to get this far.” Another smile and it blinded Raelag, stunning him like a pommel blow to the temple, “Perhaps we can meet again, in more auspicious circumstances.”

Fast as that, she swiftly turned and made off. If she had been a moment slower, he would have attacked Markal, had been preparing for it, but that smile... Blast that woman and the madness she caused him, the inattention that could happen just because she smiled! Damn it, and damn him for a lovelorn fool. Why, why had he even thought for a moment she would listen to him? An unknown man? Isabel was strong, she wouldn’t know he spoke the truth, wouldn’t know how hard he had fought!

That knowledge didn’t stop the thorn of bitterness from pricking him, “Sooner or later, I’m going to get tired of saving her life.” Not that he had done it often. Not that there had been many causes to do so. Just...just saying it soothed his wounded and battered pride. 

...

Isabel wouldn’t accept his help. It crushed Raelag, wounded him, as though she had stabbed him. Had he come to her as a Demon Lord again? No. Had he kidnapped her? No... 

In his quarters in Halris, Raelag paced. 

“If those are your measures for being a trustworthy man, Raelag, then you have lowered your personal standards of self comportment exponentially,” a darker piece of shadow detached itself and morphed, revealing Erunia just as he was readying a defensive spell. “It was always obvious you would lose your head over a human, for someone who fought the empire through its name changes, you certainly were fond of their women.” And just like that, with a girlish smile, his little sister became like a tiny pixie all at once, all disapproval and sting from her words vanished. With open arms, “Did you really think that you could remain hidden from _me_ , Brother?”

Embracing her tightly, Raelag crushed her in close, then pushed her away so he could give her a good looking over. “By Malassa’s night, look at you! You’ve grown.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek, “Not hardly, it’s only been, what? Hmn?” Erunia frowned briefly then swore in a most unfamiliar manner. “The memories are hard to grasp sometimes... Never mind, no one knows why we lost so much. Sylsai is remembered, Menan is, I am...you...you aren’t. Not outside of Sorshan’s students and myself. And I’ve had to fight for those memories - even though so much of it has faded. Outside our lands, you are forgotten as well. Irollen, the Griffin Empire, the Silver Cities... It is as though you never existed.” 

That had puzzled him as well, but he waved it off, freeing himself of the sibling embrace, to right a pair of chairs and a table. “Considering I was king for so long, yes, that should be very distressing. To find my cities in ruin, disarray - “ he gestured to Halris around them, “- at least this place remembers me. Would Konos?”

“Konos is under my protection,” Erunia shook her head and began to help him straighten the sitting room back up. “Still... To cling to our history, there are those of us who spend an hour or more each day, reciting it, writing it down, over and over again, so we do not forget.”

“And you, do you waste hours remembering your brother’s face, or is it our history in of itself that you worry over?” Raelag asked, sorting through a few of the dried components he kept on hand often, and offered her a few tins to smell, see whichever one she preferred. 

As he accepted one that carried the smell of bright-blight flowers and rose hips, she answered, “I’ve an easier time, but details seem to get lost. Your swagger wasn’t forgotten, but the way in which you use your magic the way others would reach out with a hand - that I forgot.”

Raelag heated the water to a good steam and dropped the leaves in to return and have a seat, lacing his hands together over his stomach, elbows on armrests. “Mother would be appalled, wouldn’t she?”

That got another laugh, “I thought that was where you gained the habit!”

“Mmno, sadly, I gained it due to a very badly broken leg, and of course the druids simply wouldn’t just... _heal_ it, no, it had to be urged along in its natural ways,” Raelag scoffed. “So there was often a pot of tea or pitcher of water nearby, frequently not a temperature I desired, and with only myself on hand to fix it, fire and ice became easy friends. Wind came next - someone was always coming in and leaving doors open when they left, damn them. A boy with a broken leg does what he must.”

Erunia reached out with both her hands to grasp his when he passed her a filled cup, hanging onto it like a lifeline, and Raelag quickly transferred the cup to his other hand and set it down so he may squeeze her hand. “There is too much happening, Brother,” urgent, as if a fog had been lifted, her violet eyes were clear as they focused on him. “Malassa’s voice is quiet, Malsara is difficult to hear. I’ve taken the ashes, tasted a speck each day, to remain strong, but I’m weakening. Father, Mother, Sorshan - they bolster me and carry me through the day. The ashes of angels and Faceless I’ve collected - they cannot allow me to maintain for much longer, there’s too little of them.”

Alarmed, Raelag leaned forward, clutching her hands with both of his, “Explain.”

“Too much is happening, Brother,” the sentence repeated. “Too much is -” she blinked vacantly, “- I’m sorry, what was I saying?”

Disturbed, Raelag prompted her, “Malassa’s voice has gone quiet, you’re having a difficult time hearing Malsara, the ashes are running out -”

Another blink, clueless, almost angry, “Who are you?”

Flinching, Raelag instead held her hands tighter, “Erunia, it’s Raelag. Your eldest brother. The one who would apply a bit of healing to your scraped knee or a pricked finger when you hurt yourself. The one who would take the time to go over your lessons -”

“I know you, you’re important...” Erunia looked so confused, then she shivered, hands pulling free of his as she fumbled for a small box licking just the very tip of a long nail to just touch the box’s contents and hold her finger under her tongue a long moment. Eyes closed, they opened slowly, swirling a deep violet so endless that it was very nearly black. “Raelag...” Grounded once more, she was still different, returning to the warmth of earlier, “Tell me of this human girl who has wounded you just by having a mind of her own and sent you into a sputtering fit.”

Wincing, “When you put it like that, I sound -”

“Like an ass,” Erunia said brightly, her eyes returning to their normal dancing violet and she looked at the cup of tea, as though seeing it for the first time and immediately pounced on it, curling into the chair easily, the soft and fine fabrics she was wearing not clashing or tugging with the movement in spite of her oversized boots. “Bossy, bossy - always used to being listened to. Or mocked, but eventually obeyed. So, tell me about her. How did you meet? I do so love a nice love story.”

Shifting uncomfortably, “Kha-Beleth sent me to watch over her shortly after her birth.”

“Human, right, I forgot,” she nodded. “Oh, was she a cute baby? Tell me, was she chubby? I need a baby, I should go find myself a man to provide a few.”

Raelag made a face, “I suppose. She was a baby, a smashed bean looking thing. How should I know if that is ‘cute’? And only her many chins were chubby.” And her ankles at one point, just before a growth spurt. “How many nieces and nephews do I have?”

“Oh, none,” Erunia shrugged. “That means you and I both need to do something about it all. It’s been how long since there was last an elven hybrid? I forgot, which parent do they take after?”

Uncomfortable, Raelag tried to change the subject from having children, “There used to be a few Irollen ones.” He plumbed his memories, “I’ve come across one or two who were descended from Dark Elves in the Silver Cities. They seemed...normal for impetuous magelings.”

Taking a long sip of tea, “So, this woman...? What’s she like?” 

“Independent, thoughtful, kind, and likes counting stars, giving them new names and stories if she deems them too depressing,” that was all easy enough to say, to recite. It was the other things that were more difficult to put into words, but he knew Erunia well enough to be aware she wouldn’t be satisfied with simply that. “It wasn’t uncommon for her to be found telling stories to the mousers, the horses, the goats, or the cows, even as recently as two and a half years ago. Isabel...cares for everything around her, seeking to find the good and valuable in each person or thing. She’s never shirked her duty, or at least not beyond an early morning fishing trip at the pond, and would greet each day as though it were going to be her last. No matter how afraid, exhausted, or wounded she is, she seeks to meet problems head on, even if she has no idea what to do with the situation.”

The things he had to bottle up and lock away where none could see or hear them, he was allowed to voice with Erunia, the cocooning spell of their sibling magic shielding them against any possible listeners. Beyond Malassa and her child, Malsara, for they heard all, and knew all secrets. It was why he spoke none of his own, for if it was only in his own mind and heart, then if another found out about it, he would know Malassa had betrayed her faithful worshipper. 

...And then they would see if a god could die.

But to Erunia, it was a risk, it was merely one he was willing to take. His pale sister, perched like a fragmented star, listened, her lovely ears twitching this way and that, cupping the sound of his voice and hearing the truths held there. Now and then she would interrupt with an oblique reference, some bit of knowledge trying to break through, slipping away before she was fully able to grasp it. At some point she became barefoot and had rummaged around, preparing a snack from the stores he stocked his quarters with, though he could easily call for food to be sent up, Raelag was more accustomed to cold rations or very simple fare. That was one thing about the abbey - he hadn’t been stinted food even once. 

He made himself refrain from flinching when Erunia tugged him down onto the floor, half under his arm as she ate the fleshy fronds of bread fungus, the lavender and orange broad-headed toadstool. “She doesn’t sound much like her...”

Raelag’s brow beetled, “Her?” Then he shuddered, tone sharpening, “Beyond being human and female, there’s little common between them. Besides...she’s dead, long dead,” ancient dead, “and Isabel is alive.”

“For now,” Erunia agreed. “But for how long Raelag? It won’t be long, unless you - ah...” She smelled of saltwater and kelp, anemones and ambergris, rare roots and flowers as she tucked her head back on his shoulder, looking up at the ceiling. “Malsara would know of a way, Malsara -” Erunia’s voice sank into one of those mimicking hisses of all ‘s’ and sibilant growls, “Malsara knows the way to keep what you love most, what you _fear_ most...”

Jostling his sister back to the present, likely giving Malsara a bit of an elbow as well, which didn’t bother him in the _slightest_ , “Malsara is too slow. Apparently it’s not just my people who have forgotten who I am, because I already know how to -”

“To bind a human soul to yours? To...make it...anew?” Malsara-in-Erunia wasn’t dissuaded and unblinking, ebony eyes without whites, only a sprinkling of stars, gazed at him. “To keep her with you for your whole life and...beyond? No other will harm her, no other may kill her, your hand only may end her life, only you may touch her, love her, be with her, forever and all, in the darkness and shadow to cradle you both.”

“Such offerings are too good to be true,” Raelag rolled his eyes. “Double edged swords and downing a few poisons all at once, that’s what that sounds like. Like forcing her to be with me, rather than allowing her to choose. It would make a slave of the woman I love. No - if you seek to bribe me, daughter of Malassa, you’ll have to do better than that. Something focused on kindness, freewill, and honest to goodness care, as bizarre a concept as any. Because anything less, and it wouldn’t be fit for Isabel, instead, it would be a mere paltry copy made of base materials - cheap, gaudy, and easily broken.”

Erunia-Malsara growled and hissed, displeased, “It is better than you deserve.”

Refusing to reveal even a hint of his anger and shame at that reminder, he said with good humour, “Then we’ve nothing to discuss, Malsara. I’ve work to do, leave my sister be, you’ve failed in this round of the game.”

A full body shudder, and Erunia went limp against him, forcing Raelag to scoop her up. Oh how he remembered those visions. Luckily he had never been possessed - at least not to his knowledge. Probably wouldn’t have fit, Malassa and Malsara preferred female hosts if using them to speak directly to others, otherwise, he had been mouthpiece frequently enough. Or subjected to falling over, mind taken over with knowledge, sound, touch, vision, all at once. Raelag didn’t relish a return to that state, and planned to fight any such action tooth and nail. Speaking to him, giving him visions - these were fine, so long as he wasn’t being drowned and dragged down deep into the nether just because Malassa didn’t care about her own strength. 

Scooping his sister up, Raelag carried her to his bedroom and set her down gently, tucking her in as he used to when she had smoked a bit too much of the dreamweed, or hit the blood wines too hard. He went about and cleaned up after his earlier tantrum that Erunia had interrupted, and the mess she had made rummaging through his belongings like a ferret through leaves in search of something shiny and jingly. As he swept up the pieces of broken pottery, he had to admit, Erunia was right. Isabel hadn’t turned down his offer of safe passage just because she was a harriden or seeking to hurt him. He had _known_ that, but it didn’t stop the initial pain and anger. In fact, everything Isabel was doing - working with the information, experience, and situation she had - was much of what he loved best about her. Much of what truly bothered him was the presence of Markal, that filthy necromancer. Well, that and the danger she was in, but he could only do so much.

Now, it wasn’t like Raelag had a problem with necromancy, or even the worshippers of Asha’s spider aspect, as a whole. It was that many who were drawn or caught up in those arts were power hungry fiends, looking for ways of carrying out vengeance and their own self-aggrandizement. The way Raelag thought of it, if they wanted those things, they should take up the Dark and Destructive schools the way warlocks like himself, or the mages of the Silver Cities would do. No, those who couldn’t hack it as warlocks or mages, yet were starved for ultimate power, turned to necromancy far too often. In his years, he had met the devout who believed that ‘Asha uses all’, and had little concern for gaining power. They had believed in the perfection of the ultimate state, held from full death, functioning in the realm of the breathing. 

Markal was not one of the true believers. He was a self-serving sort, Raelag had known too many like that in his life, he’d seen them in Irollen as a youth not even aware that that was what he was witnessing. He had seen them in the Falcon-Griffin Empire, the Silver Cities, Sheogh, and his own people...? They were just as guilty of being self-serving. Raelag himself was self-serving, and he damn well knew it! But only because he had served and served others, and then seen how well that service was rewarded. Now he only wanted to be with Isabel, to let the world go on its own paths, or to serve and protect her kingdom if that was what she wished. 

But this...Markal. Oh how he had clearly known what way to grab Isabel’s heart, her attention, and glamoured her with those empty promises. On the surface, Raelag had found a few of the wounded Griffin soldiers, interrogated them, healed them, and had them sent back to safety through the dark routes of Ygg-chall. Through them, he had learned of just how hard pressed Isabel had been leading up to her joining with Markal. It was a situation of ‘if only Nicolai were here’, a burden, a task that pressed upon her all around, and gave Markal the opening the greedy, unclean necromancer hungered for. And now? Now he had Isabel so focused on what made so much sense in her position, with her information, information from sources she knew she could trust - now Markal had her dancing to his tune.

Raelag couldn’t fault her for that, couldn’t fault her for trying to find a way out, a way to lead and save her people. He had done plenty of worse things in situations that were better than hers, and had no room to cast stones or insults. Isabel was only doing what was right from a list of options that were all bad, with no idea who she could turn to, who she could trust, and in spite of how well he knew her...she didn’t know _him_. Not this him at least, and he had no way of convincing her, his ability to shapeshift having been given up, and his illusions were coming slowly - combat spells were more important. Besides, he never wished to deceive her ever again, even when it was for her own good, it had to be _her_ decision.

With a sigh, Raelag sat down to listlessly finish what Erunia had prepared as a snack, biding his time, and making silent plans. If Isabel wouldn’t come with him, he would begin to amass more troops, and focus upon stemming the tide of the demonic hordes. He could do that much, and watch for another opening that would present itself. For until Markal was dead - truly dead - Raelag would have little access to Isabel. Then again, the same would be said for anyone else. Let those who had no actual interest in Isabel do his dirty work of removing the necromancer, as she wouldn’t be thanking them for their assistance, and Raelag could come in and ‘fix’ everything. Or at least buy time for her to gain enough perspective to understand what he had seen. 

...

Raelag had an army in reserve, ready to fly with him at a moment’s notice to go to Isabel’s aid. As it was, he was often in the field, leaving Shadya, Ylaya, and Erunia to handle the local fights. Nightshard, Soulscar, Shadowbrand, and Erunia’s Starshot being the most powerful of the clans, all of which were under his control (Erunia’s small clan remaining autonomous, but that was a given, for the sake of appearances, he ruled hers as well) and that made it a very...wise...decision to side with him. And quickly, before the smaller clans attracted his unkind regard.

He was constantly on the move, digging out old clans and rousing them to full action, awakening old holds that had slumbered in his absence. Just because the Dark Elves had become Malassa’s children, agents of the Dark...it did not make them immune to it. They were forces of her will, bits and pieces of her given over, and perhaps she had realized almost too late, that she had made them too powerful. That ones like himself, were too close, too concentrated, too...much. Some of his brethren had absorbed the dying Faceless, taken in more than just what Malassa herself had given them, but accepted more, far more, by taking in the Faceless. Erunia may consume their ashes to keep hold of the precious and important memories, but others had become shadows. He, himself, had once been closer to shadow. At birth, as a Sylvan, his hair had been the darkest brown possible and still been brown rather than black. Then Malassa touched him, and all colour drained from his flesh, his locks had exploded into tattered nether, and his eyes crackled with violet fires. 

His eyes were still violet, still sensitive to the light, still able to see unerringly in the dark, still threw back a glow when light struck - but there were no crackling storms in his irises and his whites didn’t glow unhealthily. Raelag’s hair was the shiny black of a raven’s wing, tossing back hints and glimmers of rainbow blue, green, gold, red, silver, and purple, rather than the swaying, writhing, twisting snarls that seemed to have minds of their own. Even his flesh had some colour to it, instead of the cloudy frozen ice white of yesteryear; now he had the faintest hints of human fleshy pink, but where his veins were close to the surface, the skin was closer to blue than anything else. In spite of all those differences, the outposts knew him, remembered him, his touch and his orders awakening the stone and spells from their sleep. They were sluggish as the abandoned defenses stirred, arming themselves in the way of their creation. Let the Silver Cities have their golems, Irollen their trents - the Dark Elves had all of the under realm at their beck and call.

As the old - relative to the existence of the Dark Elves at least - works came to life, Raelag could feel their influence. Claws within him dug deeper, tugging and pulling, trying to twist him from his path. This was why he had a hard time trusting Malassa, the Faceless - they were loving and they were betrayers. Succor and rancor. Their aspects warred with the Dark Elves’ need for self-preservation, and now all that were left were dregs. Raelag resisted the need to snarl and snap and crush and manipulate, directing each urge to something more...productive. Before, oh yes, Before, he had not been a great mage, a great warlock, and see where being all about might and mind had gotten him. Well then, in this case he would make a few _changes_. As such his acquisition of further magical prowess was vital. 

Old Thralsen, his one time holding, the whispers there were different, and Raelag spilled his own blood, mixing it with a portion of the ashes Erunia had spared for him, so that he could find that which was lost. The pungent pong of copper and other essences that made up his blood was a harsh hallucinogenic rush of excruciating pain. It had been a long time since he tasted ashes, since he had tasted his own blood, and the ugly poisons that made up both. One of his witches stared, watching as he fell to the ground, wracked and coughing. Yet when one finally moved to ‘assist’, Raelag was sitting up, the voices of past and present loud, and strength filled his muscles. Calling to the ghosts of Thralsen, Raelag’s voice carried far beyond the simple cavern.

Screeches and roaring hisses shook and trembled Thralsen’s stonework and battlements, the looming shadows rising up to engulf him. As they washed back and away, Raelag was made anew, old habits, old strengths, and for a moment without end, he heard the Faceless, Jorgen, who had been his close friend. Be it a ghost or just a fragment of memory, he wouldn’t claim to hold the answer, he only accepted the fact that through the centuries, a familiar person who knew him was there no matter how short that moment was.

Turning back to his front line army, “Make Thralsen ready - she awaits you. Let her walls make us strong, casting shadows that none may pierce. From Malassa’s night, we shall strike and harry the demons of Sheogh. We, of the Darkness, want nothing of Urgash and Kha-Beleth, they only bring ruination. Awaken this city, listen to it, and take heed of its lessons to you.”

Months of hard labour, and Raelag heard that there were sightings of spirits and ghosts inside Thralsen. In the other outposts, garrisons, towns, and cities, there had been some mention of oddness, but here, Thralsen knew him differently. He could _feel_ it, feel the town gathering itself, answering him the way a pet lizard would, eager for a bite of meat and a scratch. 

Good, all was in order then.

Malassa provided to those who but looked into her shadows for secrets and treasures - old and new alike. Ashan may have forgotten him, forgotten what the people of Tarlad, of Ygg-chall, were like, forgotten these hidden bastions, but _he_ had **not**.


	3. Isabel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mention of rape, not described.

Isabel’s head hurt. All of her hurt. Ever since her accursed wedding day, some part of Isabel had hurt, be it a blister, a wound, a break, or a headache. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another, always, always. Kiril had come by once again to check on her - no, Kha-Beleth’s - no...just... Kiril had come to check upon the babe as was his wont. His information hadn’t really helped with the headache, maybe it had even made it worse.

Rocking Sareth - by Elrath, why had she named him? - Isabel set the dark haired boy to her breast where he promptly cuddled in, soft mouth latching onto her engorged nipple. It tickled in an oddly soothing way, which...in of itself...gave her pain. This babe, this thing...this...her... Isabel did not want to claim him as her own. She didn’t want to admit that he had sprung, burst, exploded in pushing and tearing nightmare, from her loins. It didn’t help that he was so agreeable, that he would quiet the very moment she touched him, or coo, giggle, laugh, and now he made sounds that sometimes sounded almost like ‘mama’. 

Sometimes in the night, she would awaken, and consider getting up and just... If she covered his mouth and nose, it would be all over quickly, wouldn’t it? She had even made the attempt once, sitting beside the crib, hand hovering as Sareth slept peacefully. Isabel couldn’t make herself do it. By Elrath! She couldn’t make herself do it! 

She rose to pace the confines of the tiniest room of her quarters, as it was the only place she felt remotely safe. Kha-Beleth had robbed her of many things, but he had not robbed her of her mind. Her weapons were gone, her armour, her steed, and she was left...impractical clothing, in a set of rooms meant to be ludicrously decadent. She despised those rooms. Kiril had had her moved elsewhere, he and his succubus pet, to an area that was inundated with illusion to cool the throbbing red coal glow. Still, her clothing was impractical and the quarters were too decadent, though much simpler by comparison. The cubicle she slept in, paced in, and held Sareth as he nursed, was small, so very small. It felt exactly like what it was: a prison. 

A prison from which there was no escape. Godric, Zehir, Findan and...and... Isabel clutched Sareth to her, sitting down heavily in the lone chair she had dragged into the cubby of a room, and cried as Sareth continued to suckle, a sleepy hand grasping at her breast. Godric, Zehir, Findan and Raelag - fighting Kha-Beleth. They had come to break her free when all her own efforts had come to naught. And she had fought, she had fought tooth and nail, and when too heavy with child to punch, kick, or grapple, she would throw herself at walls or the floor, belly first in an attempt to end it all. She had fought, she had done horrible things, in hopes of making of herself a broken tool. 

Now, the one slim holdout of hope was about to be crushed. Kha-Beleth had been preparing for months, years, for their entry, how would they survive? They wouldn’t, and they would die because of her. Faithful Godric, who loved the Empire, Elrath, and Ashan with equal measure, who was a good man, seeking to avert catastrophe. Findan...Zehir...Isabel did not know them more than in passing, but they had seemed to be good men also. As for Raelag - only one had ever said her name as though it were a benediction before. One who had watched over her, had Raelag as Agreal been Edgar? No, Nicolai had her dearest first love killed. Who had Raelag been to watch her, know her, protect her, without her ever realizing it? Yet she knew him, she knew Raelag, knew the deep gentleness of that voice. The veterans of Beatrice’s abbey - many had sounded that way in one form or another. She could think of at least four men that Raelag could have been, all of them ones she had loved in one way or another, simply because they were friends, security, and much of the good in her sheltered world. 

And even if she hadn’t known Raelag, or couldn’t ever place a finger as to who he had been, there had never been anyone who looked at her like that. That expression in his eyes, in those wildly coloured, vibrant, bright lilac eyes, had spoken to her, breaking through the long, endless fatigue of seeing how many bad decisions she had made. It was as though even the tiniest mote of love were found and bundled up to shine in her direction. Isabel didn’t love him, she didn’t know him, but a man who could throw off the shackles of being a demon and love so deeply - surely that was a man inspired by Asha, by Elrath, maybe even by his own dark goddess, Malassa. Isabel had looked into his eyes, felt his palm, the flesh of it after he had hastily removed his glove, to brush her forehead in a brief caress to soothe her to the trance necessary for the rite. She had promised herself that she would get to know this man, to befriend him at the least. All that had given her something to hang onto as she sank deeper and deeper into the preparatory trance. The last thing she had heard, was his voice, screaming for her, overlaid by Biara and Kha-Beleth’s delight at Raelag’s pain.

...Then her own agony began. Or continued, she couldn’t decide which was which. It would be without end now, there was no more hope, and when Kha-Beleth no longer had a reason to keep her alive, she would be tortured some more, then perhaps, if she were lucky, allowed to die.

Muddy hazel green eyes blinked slowly up at her, tiny fingers grasping her breast, expression intent and milk-drunk, but Sareth was also making mumble sounds as he took nourishment from her. If he was to be some evil monster, why must he be so sweet? Why must he look to her with such easy adoration at the security she provided him? 

Unlatching, Sareth rubbed his face into her breast before hiccuping into a burp, expression wrinkling all up. Isabel shifted him so she could rub and pat his back for a few more burps, and he hugged her tight with his short arms, babbling his version of mama at her as she did so. All cleaned up, Sareth was ready for a cuddle and told her very much so, with a big smile and a few budded teeth, followed by a gummy kiss. This boy was to unleash the hells on Ashan? This boy? Isabel smiled for him, kissed his cheek and sat down to read one of the books the succubus Xana had brought her. It was her only escape, and it wouldn’t be one for much longer - she couldn’t let herself relax, couldn’t let go of the pain, the anguish, the horror, but she also wasn’t going to take it out on Sareth. He bore no fault for now, and he, and the book, were her only distraction from the fact that there were good men out there dying all because of her.

....

Kiril had a sibilant voice, it was an odd, dark, warped and crackling thing. His flame reddened eyes were fixated on her as she ate of the food that originated in Ashan (the food of Sheogh encouraged the transformation from human to demon) and was safe for her to eat. “They were successful in escaping with their lives,” the one time Griffin noble said. 

Isabel had had to learn to eat - to learn to do anything, really - under the voracious gaze of demons, for if one was in attendance, she could be certain they were watching her the way a slavering dog watched the town butcher. Because of how disconcerting that was, it took her a moment to register what he had said. And then her hands began to shake.

“They escaped? They’re...Godric? He’s alive?” her heart trembled with relief almost as badly as her hands were as she gripped the blackened ebony of her small table where she was taking her meal. 

“The old Unicorn, yes,” he nodded. “The Sylvan, Findan, the soon to be king of Irollen, he has escaped as well. Zehir, the gaudy son of Cyrus, also escaped. All of them have escaped with their lives and a portion of their troops.”

Yet he hadn’t mentioned Raelag. Agreal. Whomever he was. Isabel had fabricated so many stories, so many of the people in her life as a child and young woman, he could have been any of those. Why, he could have even been Beatrice for all she knew, in spite of that dastardly succubus Biara saying that the priestess was ‘fertilizing the garden’. 

“And?” she prompted.

“And? And what? And you would like some pie? Or your weapons and armour to race after them? I can only do so much, Queen Isabel,” he seemed amused. “You forget, that my comings and goings are a secret and much of what I can do, I do. But I know my limitations. I’ve waited a long time for this, watched Kha-Beleth a long time... So, speak up, and tell me what you want.”

“Raelag, did Raelag escape, also?” voice cracking, Isabel leaned forward urgently, the reflex of normal life coming to her and she, unheeding, grabbed his gauntleted hands, squeezing them, desperate. They were peculiarly warm, smooth yet cracked, like the segmenting of a beetle’s carapace, all while being as warm as bare flesh. “The Dark Elf, the Clanlord of Ygg-chall, did he escape also?”

Kiril looked off to the side, as though remembering a petty irritation, “Ah yes, Raelag, I should’ve known. He has that effect on human women, you know. The women of the Houses Unicorn and Stag, chiefly. Most of them seem to die defending him. A drunkard, a wastrel, an irresponsible king, who wants nothing to do with ruling his people. Impatient and annoying. I thought Greyhound women had better taste.”

“Be that as it may, we all have history, we’ve all made heinous mistakes in our lives,” Isabel said angrily, attempting to jerk her hands free, but Kiril only smiled and held on. “Who are you to judge his mettle when he is the one who threw off being a demon while you sit here, as one of my gaolers, no matter how _kind_?”

He laughed. “My dear Isabel! I am here because I _like_ Sheogh. It...grows on you after awhile,” as his gauntlets suddenly receded, seeping into his flesh, his normal looking human flesh, with a moist, unhealthy slurp. “Here, I’m immortal. I can be resurrected, reclaimed over and over again. Of course, Raelag thought he killed me, I suppose it was rather convincing with three feet of steel punched through my heart and lungs and out my back, with my armour battered and spread open like the rib cage of a _bird_. Lovely work, so very thorough. As to your question, yes, Raelag got away - with almost all of his army. Quite clever of him, allowing everyone else to expend so much, while he took so few losses.” Kiril’s gaze went from her face, slipping down to land on her bosom, then to her plate, where he plucked up one of the hard boiled quail eggs and popped it in his mouth. “If I know the man, and I do, I’ve watched him, and had my own agents observe him for all those centuries he was Agreal, he is readying to grab another legion or five of his men, and return for you. He was always led about by the cock as I understand it. Then again, if I had to watch you grow and run about swinging swords, climbing trees like that, I may have lost my own head over you. Luckily, I didn’t have to do that, or you’d be the queen of Sheogh by now.”

Scowling at him, Isabel pushed away from the table to pace, “So you’d like to think, Kiril. You’re not nearly so charming as you believe. Instead of being reviled as Kiril the Mad, or Kiril the Damned, you should be Kiril the Ambitious.” 

That got her another laugh, the one time human man rising to go peer at Sareth for a moment, as her boy was playing with a set of blocks she had requested some time ago and finally received. “Now that’s what I like about you, Isabel, such a mouth on you.” With a touch one of the blocks morphed into a similarly sized toy, changing it into a horse, one that trotted back and forth on the blanket, capturing Sareth’s attention. “Keep yourself in good condition, Isabel, because no one can help you but yourself when it comes down to it. Take what you want and hold it firmly with both hands, because no one else will hold onto it for you.”

When he left, the block Sareth had been wriggling and crawling after became a plain cube, and he looked so disappointed as he held it up to her so she could fix it or inspect it, that Isabel felt a laugh burble up. Sareth echoed the sound, happy she was happy, and there was no weight crushing her. Raelag was coming for them! Scooping Sareth up for a tickle, she blew her lips over his face and into his neck, making him squeal for joy. They would be out of Sheogh! They would be free! Sareth would feel the sun on his face, smell the clean air, feel the grass under his exploring hands! 

....

Sareth was walking, toddling and falling on his rump, then clambering back up again. Isabel couldn’t keep him in a crib, not even for a nap as he wanted to be right where she was. If she could be thankful to a demoness, she was thankful to Xana, Kiril’s agent, concubine, and pretend servant to Kha-Beleth. For if it wasn’t for Xana, Isabel wouldn’t be able to have five minutes to use a chamberpot or take a bath on her own. Or maybe even a nap, just a little nap, without him trying to clamber on her like a giant toy. She hadn’t meant to bond to him, to disassociate him from those early months, to the nightmare of her life after her failed wedding. Isabel was caged with Sareth all day, every day, for years, the time in Sheogh passing queerly, and as he was now, her son was harmless, with no hint of the hellspawn he was or was to become. 

That did not mean that when Kha-Beleth visited, mostly out of curiosity, that Isabel liked that particular bit of ‘fun’. The Demon Sovereign would attempt to flirt, perhaps if she hadn’t loathed him so utterly, and he hadn’t defiled, abused, used, beat, battered, and raped her to plant Sareth in her belly - perhaps then that overly cordial flirtation may have worked. The demon was wearing a strange face, one that was utter perfection so much so that even an archangel would weep for its beauty.

...Isabel thought him hideous.

“Ah, my dear, I’ve come for our weekly little chat, why not put the kettle on, hmn?” robust and cultured tones that put her in mind of Nicolai after his resurrection, sang out as the massive man made himself comfortable walking through her quarters. 

Clenching her fists in the skirt of one of the many dresses she had been ‘gifted’, Isabel’s gaze bored in the back of his head. “Do it yourself.”

“So hostile, darling, you can’t really be so put out with me after all this time,” his smile was winsome as he threw it over his shoulder. “After all, we know each other so well, shouldn’t you have put all that unpleasantness aside by now? If you’d just been less recalcitrant, it would not have gone so poorly for you.”

Forcefully she smoothed her expression and began rummaging in the small pantry cupboard that had been installed while she was still pregnant. Isabel knew that, for a person in her predicament, she was being fairly well treated. But she also knew that it had nothing to do with her benefit or to make her life easier. No, it was to keep her tractable, for if she misbehaved, they would just take things away, as though she were a naughty child. Since the demonic ‘healers’ were rather loud over the fact that, for the time being, Sareth’s survival required her cooperation and presence, Isabel’s situation had...improved. So she quashed all of her pride and began to not just make tea for Kha-Beleth, but to heat up some mashed vegetables for Sareth’s lunch. Clever designs had resulted in a cooking space with a grill that small briquettes of fuel that didn’t smoke heavily, could be used. It was different from the great wood burning stoves she knew, but in the end, it wasn’t important. 

“He’s an odd looking child, don’t you think?” Kha-Beleth asked rather conversationally. 

“You mean he doesn’t take after you,” Isabel replied as she assembled the cooler vegetables, nuts, and dried fruits into a salad for herself. Kha-beleth would not be served a single bite of her repast, as he hadn’t provided it in the first place, nor was he welcome in the space she had been locked away in. 

“Mmn, yes, I suppose,” he grunted, his fiery, crackling eyes focused on Sareth who was scowling at him with as much hatred and anger as Isabel felt. “Why, he even has managed to copy your look - what _are_ you teaching the lad?”

Isabel didn’t respond, instead setting everything where it needed to go on the table. As Kha-Beleth was still watching Sareth intently while she leaned over to set the tray down, she saw a chance. It was a chance she had been waiting for, waiting for his inattention, and the paring knife she had been holding under the tray came out. With a hiss of effort as the blade slammed through Kha-Beleth’s exposed ear, Isabel grasped the opposite side of his head, ignoring the clatter of plates, cups and dishes, and threw her weight into her effort. Kha-Beleth reared, roaring, trying to throw her off, and they grappled on the stone floor, the knife ripped out from his head, and she slammed it into his eye socket, until she went flying. 

Gouting blood that burned black on the edges from eye and ear, cheeks slashed wide into an ugly grin, and throat slashed, Kha-Beleth kept his hands on his head, expression feral with pain and rage. Isabel was up, her fighter’s instincts that belonged to skills that had languished in her years inside this hellish prison, came to the fore. Instinct didn’t abandon her, and as she threw a footstool she had grabbed from nearby, while Kha-Beleth ducked, focused on that, she dove towards him in a running tackle. He would always outweigh her, for the moment he was more powerful, stronger, just - everything _more_. But Isabel was angry, she had years of pent up rage to expend, and Light magic coalesced in her palm as she dug her fingers into his ravaged face, bursting through his flesh. She didn’t feel his gauntleted hands wrapped around her throat, crushing the life and squeezing the air from her, she only grinned through it, lips moving in the spell’s incantation. 

With a concussive, soundless blast, Isabel was thrown again, her head striking the stone of a wall or floor, making her dizzy, and she was burning. Burning, burning, and she couldn’t feel anything as the heat seared beyond agony. But Kha-Beleth, he was screaming, his mouth open, hanging open from tattered cheeks and muscles she had ripped asunder, the lower half of his jaw sagging to his chest, tongue waving. A bright wash of something came over her as she struggled, then was no more.

....

Isabel moaned, then cried on a helpless, agonized whimper. 

“Shh, hush now, it’s alright, Isabel,” a female voice broke through, familiar. “Just rest. I’ll bring Sareth to you, just a moment.”

Shifting and then there was weight beside her, squirming, “Mama?” 

Blinking her eyes open, Isabel took a moment to focus on the very concerned toddler squirming in close as possible, with his wide, frightened eyes. “Oh, there you are, Sareth.” 

Immediately her son buried his face in her neck and hung on, as he began shaking and crying quietly.

His distress pushed Isabel to sit up, holding him tight, in spite of the pain wracking her body. Cooing and singing to him, Isabel rocked, cuddled, and kissed him, wiping away his tears. He must have been so terrified from what had happened, what she had done - 

As she set him to her breast as it was still his preference to nurse when distraught or being put down for the night’s sleep, or any other time he could get to her breast, Isabel’s head snapped up to look at Xana, “Kha-Beleth?”

“He is sequestered,” the succubus grinned at her, “ _resting_. You really did a number on him!”

Tucking Sareth in closer as he clutched her, his body curling in tight around her middle and upper chest, “He did a number on me, too, I’d wager.”

Xana glanced at Sareth, “You shoulda died from that, but someone protested, and may’ve added a bit of fuel to the fire on his father’s remains.” She leaned in, voice dropping low, “Your friend is closing in. A few days at most.”

Straightening up completely, her heart lept, “Truly? We could slip away now, while Kha-Beleth is still in no condition to -”

Xana leaned forward even closer, her hand squeezing Isabel’s, urgently whispering, “You have to leave Sareth, Isabel.”

“What? No!” jerking away. 

“He has to stay, Isabel, he has to,” Xana grabbed her hand again, the expression on the demoness’ face so normal, so human, that Isabel wanted to believe the woman actually meant it even if Isabel didn’t agree. “If you take him, Kha-Beleth will unleash every bit of his might upon Ashan. And if you stay, he will pervert you, he will do everything he can to crush the person you are, warp you, and leave just enough of you intact to realize what you’ve become and what you’ve lost. He will do everything to hurt you, because he _can_. You have to let Sareth stay and if you want any hope for yourself, you have to leave.”

Isabel wanted to scream. Instead she just cradled Sareth closer, struggling not to shatter into a thousand, million, billion shards. She knew he was aware something was wrong by how he burrowed in even closer, attuned to her the way she was attuned to him, and she stroked his dark, fluffy hair, curling some of the wild locks around a finger. Why had she bonded to him so tightly? Why had he latched to her so strongly? It wasn’t solely because it was from her body that he gained life, her breast his sustenance, or her hands that held him still enough to have food from Ashan spooned into him. Sareth was Kha-Beleth’s child, the Demon Messiah, the one who was prophesied to bring ruination to Ashan, to be more powerful than Kha-Beleth could ever hope to be. 

Forcing the words from her lips, though she felt like she was being pulled inside out, “How long do I have?”

Xana’s expression softened, the claws her fingers terminated in receding to become more human as she stroked Sareth’s cheek, “Long enough to calm him down, long enough to say goodbye. Isabel, I’m so sorry.” A single flaming tear welled up from the succubus’ eye and scorched a path over her perfect, high, rounded cheek, “I’ll watch over him, I swear.”

....

Xana had taken on the most human look Isabel had ever seen the demoness wear. Sareth had remained glued to Isabel, resisting being handed over, even if he did grip the succubus’ hair with a curious look as she tried to hand him to the other woman. A spell of sleep from Kiril had knocked him out, breaking Isabel’s heart in the process, but it allowed her to finally pry his small hands from her tunic. Freely, she cried, hiccuping as she kissed his temple, murmuring that she loved him, and then...Isabel walked away. Backwards, letting Kiril lead her by the arm, as she watched Xana hold Sareth protectively to her rather enormous bosom.

When they were out of sight, Isabel finally made herself ask, “Why are you doing this, Kiril?”

“There’s a prophecy that needs fulfilling, but I’m still a man of the Empire in some ways, and like to thwart Kha-Beleth wherever possible,” his gaze focused ahead of them, and as he spoke, the spiked helm formed up, sprouting from his flesh to create a crown of thorns. “I’ve told you before, and this shall be the last time, I suppose - no matter how rewritten a man’s fate is, his core remains the same. I am still myself, Raelag is still himself, you are still yourself. Sareth will be as well. What that core is, we’ll just have to wait and see, now won’t we?”

When she caught sight of Rani, the mare she had raised from a foal, safe, sound, and looking like she was untainted by the years in Sheogh, Isabel immediately wrapped her arms around the strong neck, grateful. Face pressed briefly into the strong, equine neck, “Who took such good care of you, darling?”

“Hmph, like you would be able to escape on a hellmount,” Kiril snorted. “She, and your armour, are intact, untainted, and were kept the same place as the source of food you were supplied with. I’m nothing if not thorough. Come, we’ve no time to waste on this dawdling, Isabel!”

Taking the time to at least strap her swordbelt on and her shield to her arm, Isabel swung up quickly, “Very well, you’re correct Kiril. Let’s get on with it.”

They rode hard and far, and awkwardly Isabel attempted to don her armour, successful only in getting her helm, gauntlets, vambraces and gorget on and properly fastened. It was better than nothing, though she felt supremely naked and vulnerable. And the entire time, the pit of her stomach was empty, empty, empty, desolate and void. 

Suddenly a pack of demons were there, all around she and Kiril, and Isabel was forced to fight. Fight as she hadn’t since Talonguard. Whirling this way and that on Rani, she hung on to her battlemare, slamming and punching her shield into demons, while she hacked at their brimstone and sulphur stinking flesh. So focused was she that she didn’t notice Kiril abandoning her, and during a break in the fighting, she looked about, realized that there were no troops to command, and worst of all, no Kiril. Angrily, Isabel shouted, a wordless cry, and touched heels to Rani’s flanks, signalling her to surge forward. There was nothing to do but fight, then.

And then there came the crackle of thunder. Black lightning crashed into the knot of demons around her, sending them flying, the cracks of whips, the clang of chains, and over it all, “ISABEL!”

She knew that voice. She knew that haggard edge, that desperate, emotive voice. It had rung through her head when she wanted to give up, to give in and say that no one gave a damn what happened. When she wanted to believe that Findan, Zehir, Godric, and Raelag had tried their best and then realized it wouldn’t work. That raw, broken, frenzied call that wrapped around her name, enfolding it with every word in all languages that spoke of need, pain, and grief at the thought of her loss - Isabel would hear that in her mind, and know. She would know he would be fighting. As to what she felt, beyond thankfulness that she wasn’t abandoned, she hadn’t been able to identify.

Mounted riders on their fearsome and terrible lizards dashed this way and that, spearing hellspawn left and right, as blade dancing, scantily clad sirens slashed and slew all before them. Heavy minotaurs lumbered, great axes lopping limbs, heads, and bodies in ‘twain, and mighty dragons of the blackest night landed heavily, throwing opponents every which way, the scorched earth of Sheogh trembling at their might. Isabel saw her chance, the path was clear, the Light of Elrath shooting from her sword as she summoned up her flagging strength, and couched her shield against her side, hugging low over Rani’s neck. A barrage of arrows, flame, and nightmare was in the air, and she felt the lurching impact, dizzying and breathtaking, as her sword arm was seared. Reflexively, while Rani’s hooves clopped quickly, dashing and dashing side to side, zigzagging over the battlefield, Isabel healed herself, nauseous with nerves and adrenaline. 

Raelag shifted aside, turning his mount to cover her as she crossed the line, a shield of writhing netherborn anti-light coming up to protect them. His gaze was focused on the battlefield, shouting orders, and casting spells, but they were gathering themselves for a retreat, she could see how the tide was flowing. This was no route, this was slaughter, but a slaughter of demonkind, not Raelag’s troops. Catching her breath, she spied fallen and mangled bodies of Dark Elves and their servants (or slaves, she didn’t know if Raelag was the same as others she had read about), and found herself praying, calling upon Elrath, even in this horrible place. The recently dead rose, breath filling their lungs as she sang the incantation-prayer, wounds healing and their souls called back to their bodies. Elrath heard her pleas to release the souls of the recently deceased, giving them another chance at survival, and she was grateful. 

Demon after demon after demon was cut down, and Isabel raggedly chanted healing magics in counterpoint to the awesome forces of annihilation that Raelag laid down in measured sweeps. A detached part of her marveled at the strength of his power, at how easily he was able to rain blizzards, twisting infernos, and drowning puddles as punishment to the dammed. But her own strength, her own reserve of magic, was waning, it had been too long, she was too tired. And then, just as she was sputtering the last of her reserves, expending them to save a magnificent dragon made of a blanket of night sky, a bottle was shoved her direction. It glowed with the bright, unhealthily beautiful blue of a mana potion. Teeth digging into the cork, she guzzled its contents, enervated, and buoyed. The stuff was toxic in too high a concentration, but this was battle, and any edge was a boon. 

Disengaging from the battle when everyone was too tired to continue, they let the stragglers escape. They would live to fight another day, but that wasn’t anything to think on in the moment. Sagging with exhaustion, Isabel surveyed the field, throwing out a few last bits of healing, which was echoed by Raelag and the witches now that the current fight was over.

“I saw you get struck,” Raelag’s voice was hoarse, the deeper, clear baritone rough from the endless feeling incantations. His big lizard sidled up close to Rani as he reached out, “Let me see, I’ve enough left to heal you.”

Isabel shook her head, leaning back, “I already did so when riding over.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but only nodded curtly that he understood, giving the signal for everyone to fully quit the field. They rode for what she supposed may be an hour, perhaps two, when it was too much to go any farther, they halted. There were remains of a camp around the shattered hulk of a church, or what she supposed was once a church. It begged the question, in her foggy mind, just how much was brought to Sheogh from Ashan. Or maybe what was copied in a perverse attempt to lay claim to bits and pieces of the true world.

Hauling herself from Rani’s saddle, she did what she could, checking over the faithful mare, swaying as she fought to remain upright awhile longer. 

Raelag’s voice was low as he came around, a waterskin in hand and held it out to her, “It’s not much, but the supplies are holding steady for now.”

Accepting it, she took a small mouthful, eyes closing as she held the warm, leathery musty tasting water in her parched mouth before swallowing and took several more sips before handing it back. “How long did it take to get in and how many supplies did you bring?”

There was a jerk of his long jawed face towards the east, “There’s a few caches I had laid in over the years. I may not be Agreal anymore, but I possess a few contacts, a demon here or there that owes me or fears what I’ll do to them if they don’t obey. Perhaps enough for two weeks on us at the moment. Water shall be the main issue, but, to be honest, the water of Sheogh, while not exactly sweet on the tongue, isn’t too detrimental to the body and soul if it’s not consumed every day for many months or years.” As he spoke, he rubbed at his forearm, expression pensive, but it smoothed away. “How did you get free?”

Heavily she sat on a broken piece of masonry, taking a last drink before working on the bits and pieces of armour she had managed to put on when riding with Kiril. “Kha-Beleth is ‘resting’ because the knife shoved into his face and head repeatedly, upset him. I suppose he’s distracted, and Kiril Griffin was able to help me sneak out.”

That got a reaction. “Kiril? Kiril the Mad?”

“Kiril the Mad, Kiril the Ambitious, Kiril the Lout,” she replied bitterly. “Kiril the Abandoner. He did say he knew you, not much of what he said was particularly flattering.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” Raelag laughed, a dry and warm sound, head thrown back with his easy mirth. 

A tired smile found her, it was a tiny one, but that laugh of his was infectious, one of the most normal, human, real sounds she had heard from someone other than Sareth in so very long. “Something about three feet of steel in his chest may have soured him on you.”

He snickered and sat beside her, taking the waterskin, after pulling his gloves off to reveal those white, white, white hands covered in strange scars. “So, Kha-Beleth isn’t feeling well?”

“Not one bit,” Isabel sighed. “I don’t think he’ll be asking anyone to put the kettle on for him again for a long time.”

They sat companionably quiet, watching as the others dug for their rations, setting up tiny tents not fit to hold more than a single person, but holding three instead. Witches, with their coiled whips hanging at their brazenly swinging hips due to their boots, were checking everyone, a heal here or there showing in a sparkling touch. Riders and assassins were going over the mounts, while minotaurs were grinding edges on blades - both their axes and the swords of the blade dancers. Blade dancers were tending dragons and the hydras...everyone seemed to know what they should be doing. Isabel could see, could practically _feel_ their fatigue, but they all moved along, sluggishly forging onwards, and she felt horribly lazy just sitting there, watching them all, numb. 

Groaning, Isabel began to heave herself up, “I think I’ve still got a bedroll, Kiril did mention that all of my gear was saved.” 

Long fingers caught hers, entwining and tangling as he tugged her to a halt and back down to sit, “Here now, what good is it to be Clanlord, casting spells constantly in battle, without a bit of expectations for service? And you, yourself, were fighting, healing, and resurrecting the dead so that they may live to see another day. No, we sit, we rest, we’ve earned it, and they know it. Besides, you’ll make me look lazy if you try to set up a tent, bad for troop morale.”

Twisting to look at him, then down at how casually his hand was holding hers, the worn smoothness of his calloused thumb rubbing over one of her knuckles, “You came for me, they followed you -” she intended to say that she should at least take part in some of her own rescue, but he squeezed her hand.

Interrupting, the words were strange, so earnest, so gentle, and reverent and soft, “Of course I came for you, Isabel. The clans were united under my banner, so that I could correct my mistakes, so that I could help you. Of course I came, Isabel - I could never abandon you.”

“Raelag,” looking down at their hands, Isabel stumbled for words. “I don’t know what to say to what you’ve told me, or even what to believe. I’ve been here...three...almost four years?” She didn’t mean to say it, it just came out. “Ever since I left home...ever since I left the abbey, my life has been one nightmare after another. I can’t be whatever it is you want me to be, because I can’t think beyond the next breath, and I can’t trust anything or anyone.”

“Do you know what I want from you, Isabel? Really?” he asked, and she could only shake her head. She let him take her other hand in his, but she was wary, wary when she didn’t want to be, so couldn’t make herself grasp and tangle her fingers with his the way he was doing to hers, nice as it felt to have such simple contact. “In a perfect world, none of these bad things would have happened. In a supposedly perfect world, I would have acted sooner, more decisively, or perhaps you would have been a little less intelligent and independent of thought, more willing to take ill-advised risks. In that perfect world, we would have run away from all of this horror. I could have kidnapped you, and I did, but I also wasn’t going to take you very far, I was merely trying to buy time to convince you to come with me. Because that was what was most important, that it was our choice. Barring that so called perfect world where I was more rash or willing to go over your wishes, and you were not the intelligent woman you are, I would want to be with you.”

Isabel sighed, he was rambling and she thought she understood what he meant, but he sounded as tired as she did. “That’s...” It was what? She knew that Raelag wanted to be ‘with’ her, he had said as much outside of Talonguard. It wasn’t news or any grand revelation. “That’s not what I can do. That’s not who I am, that’s not...I don’t even know what that means, Raelag. I’m tired, I’m so tired...”

She didn’t know why she let him draw her in for an embrace, or why she rested her head on his shoulder. All she knew was that it felt good. Felt familiar, like something coming back from a far off time, another life, another world. 

Fingers pushed at her messy and mussed hair, tucking it aside, “And I don’t expect you to do anything you can’t, to be anyone you’re not, Isabel. The world’s not perfect, life isn’t perfect. So rest, and I’ll be here with you.”

....

Isabel awoke with the stink of clothes lived in too long, leather, metal, sulphur, and blasted rock in her nose. It should have been a horrible stench fit to make a normal person gag probably, but underneath it was something else, something that took the pungent smells and blended them together into something not entirely unpleasant. Cracking a lid open, all she saw was a mass of black strands, some of which were tickling her nose, scratchy stiff with salt from sweat. Under her arm was someone living and breathing, shedding heat and not exactly _snoring_ , but the breathing was deep and treading dangerously close to being a soft rattle on the exhale. Nose crinkling, Isabel scooted, then realized she was utterly tangled up in limbs, and the person - Raelag, right, that got through her sleepy fogged brain - she was curled around made a sound of complaint. 

...Well this had to be the oddest situation she ever wound up in.

Yawning, she pressed it into the back of his shoulder, muffling the noise, and fatigued lip smacking came from the Dark Elf Clanlord. There was a twitch and a tense, head lifting up and neck craning, wild violet eyes checking to see what was at his back, then instantly relaxed when seeing her. Lots of awkward shifting on the narrow pile of their two bedrolls, and Isabel wasn’t really certain where she should put her hands or her arms or really _anything_ for that matter. It wasn’t like she had much of an idea of how to share such close personal space with another person, because not even Edgar and she got more than the occasional doze on the banks of the pond together. Now, of course, when she was little and not feeling well, chances were she could be found curled up in a ball against Cedric’s back, but that was just a little bit different. 

The Dark Elf had twisted his arm behind his head in a really bizarre fashion to rub at his high forehead, elbow pointed at the ceiling of their tent, while his forearm arched over his crown so his fingers could splay and massage the very high line of that brow, face contorting on a yawn, “I cannot _wait_ to return to Ygg-chall, heated baths of mineral water. Soap. Baths that are deep enough to reach up to my chin.” He sniffed a few times towards his chest and armpit, making a face, “Malassa’s bile, but is that me? And who stuffed fouled socks in my mouth as I slept? I protest! One of these days, I swear I’ll manage to find the foul gnome that makes me awaken sweaty, smelly, and bad breathed, with a crick in my neck, and then I’ll feed him to Malassa.”

Lips quirking, “It could be a girl, you know,” which got her a grunt, another yawn, and then a rather startling, but casual, easy and oddly comforting, brush of his mouth over hers. Actually his morning breath wasn’t so bad, no worse than hers she supposed, “A bath does sound lovely, but until we get there, I’ll just have to take your word for how wonderful those baths are. For now, I’d settle with something to drink and maybe something to eat, even if it’s just boot leather.”

Stretching as he sat up, “I certainly hope we should be able to do better than that.”

Isabel felt rough around the edges as she methodically ate the big bowl of oatmeal she was passed. It would be better when they were out of Sheogh, she knew that. But also being out of Sheogh would mean she had decisions to make. Responsibilities to pick up. By the Light what a mess this all ways...she would be better off dead probably. More convenient for others. 

“I know that look,” came Raelag’s baritone rumble. “Would a run through a field filled with fresh cow pies make it better? How you could just skid along on it, like it was nothing...”

Jerking, Isabel was brought out from her reverie, to stare at the still sleep befuddled - or at least he _looked_ sleepy still, the shiny raven wing black of his hair was up every which way - Dark Elf. “What? I - how did, oh damn. I forgot, you...who were you?”

“It’s not important,” he shook his head. “Suffice to say I was there each day. And I must say, I don’t like children much at all, too noisy and demanding. But your penchant for leaving dung pies under people’s pillows or in their boots when you didn’t like them, was absolutely the most wonderfully evil thing I’ve ever seen. Gives me a new appreciation for what Mother went through with three boys. At least Menan was the sweet one and I was the mature, bookish one...Sylsai though...oh, troublemaker.” Head cocking, “Though I may admit, I did once present her with a very large, fine bullfrog as big as both my hands are now, and shove it in her face, telling her it needed a kiss to become a nice man. Or my father, back then I wasn’t too picky.”

Blinking a few times, Isabel took a moment to sort that all out. “Why would a bullfrog be your father? Or a nice man, for that matter...”

“My father, your father, not much different, except Lord Greyhound was grief-stricken, mine just, well,” he shrugged.

Brow beetling, “What? He died?”

“By now, I imagine, yes, he’s dead. But he was...not very, shall we say, _interested_ in life outside of his faerie trees, and the bevy of pretty little pixies, tree shagging woodpecker that he was,” there was no heat or bitterness in the tone, but the words used themselves, were most definitely old pain. “I was born a Sylvan, as was my mother, as were all my siblings. I only came about because my mother was in season and my father went into rut. It’s how it is for his other children that aren’t faeries or dryads. Though I’ve no idea how that branch of the family tree fares.”

Sorting through her lists of history, Isabel was distracted from her own dark thoughts. Raelag was originally a Sylvan? A ‘Light’ Elf? A man of Irollen? He would be many centuries old then, she supposed. While elves did live a tremendously long time, or could, the proportion of those who did, as far as she knew, was fairly low. And after four or five centuries, they often looked a little...worse for wear. (It was as good a description as she could come up with, as she recalled what Alaron had looked like, and he very much appeared to be Godric’s age, which meant he had to be at least four centuries old.) 

Finishing her oatmeal, “How old were you when Malassa became your Dragon?”

“Comparable to your age,” he shrugged. 

“But - but you don’t, forgive me, Raelag, this sounds silly - but you don’t look that old at all!” Amending, not really thinking about it, “Unless your widow’s peak is so particularly high because it’s a receding hairline, and you colour your hair, I suppose that could -” 

“Hey!” a hand going up to cover his forehead and the hairline in question. “It’s just the time in Sheogh that slowed things down so much! Or the Rite of True Nature, it simply put me in the state I was in before I became a Demon Lord.” Grumbling, “Beatrice would be despairing over the fact you and tact seem to not be friends still.”

Isabel couldn’t help an offended, incredulous laugh, and kicked him - lightly - in the ankle, “No fair! You know all about me, and I know nothing of you!”

“Beyond the fact that I have two younger brothers, a likely dead father, I used to be a Sylvan, and that I have no children, all of which is far more than anyone else save for my little sister knows,” his reply tart and smiling. “And I was born at least four hundred and fifty years ago. Which for most elves would peg me about middle age, thankfully I’m not, I’m more like...”

“Thirty?” she hazarded.

“I’d say somewhere around there, yes,” he sniffed disdainfully and she surmised he had been aiming lower himself. 

“Men still lose their hair even at my age, Raelag,” Isabel pointed out.

“Hey! Stop that, no making fun of that, you’re lucky that I still have _hair_ and not shadow strands the way I used to! It happened to almost all of the men, we received some Faceless tentacle shadow hair, and it was horrible. Don’t make fun of my hair,” he looked so put out, hand on his forehead still, while his hair itself was still stiff and sticking up every which way from sleeping and rubbing his head, that Isabel couldn’t help it, she really couldn’t.

Doubling over, she laughed. She laughed so hard she thought she may cry, even as she gasped breathlessly, pointing at him. Every time she thought she had a handle on catching her breath and that she may be able to stop laughing, she would look at him, and he would still look like a flustered and upset bird, that she would choke and start up again. Her mirth was rough, but it made her forget for awhile, so long as she didn’t listen too closely to the brittle glass edges of her laughter.  
.....

When there was a skirmish, or when Raelag was regaling her of tales (some fantastical, some historical, and plenty that were from her childhood from an adult’s point of view, while there were also a good portion of ones from his own life as well), Isabel was alright. That’s just how it went usually, the pressures of managing were good distractions from how her breasts throbbed, too full, her nipples itchy and burning with the swelling. And that discomfort made her think of Sareth. She wanted Sareth, she wanted her boy, but if she let herself think about him too much, she would wheel Rani around and start riding for him. What was worse? The fact that her bosom was as swollen as a dairyman’s finest show cow, udders veined and distended during a spring faire day? Only in the moment was it worse, but nothing compared to the yawning chasm that Sareth’s muddy mossy eyes would shine light into, his giggles and garbled words guide paths in that abyssal sepulcher. 

During one of their stops for the night (night and day were just relative concepts, as there was no actual night or day in Sheogh - the same being true for Ygg-chall she supposed), while laying atop their combined bedrolls, Isabel waited for Raelag to go to sleep. He was a characteristically light sleeper, yet deep enough that if she moved about and kept at least a little touch on him, he remained asleep, mostly at least. A curious grunt or snort would have to be answered in a soothing tone and he would sink back fully into his rest. Rolling so her back was pressed to his, Isabel sighed into the pillow she made of her arm. It was moments like this when she wished she hadn’t survived any of what had happened, starting chiefly with the first wave of white fevers that came and took her mother then almost the rest of her family. She couldn’t remember her elder siblings, they had rarely visited or checked in on her, but then the fevers came, and they too, all died. If she had died as a child, no one would have been hurt, as it could all be traced back to her birth, that Kha-Beleth’s plans began, if not before that even. However, her part, her part in all of the hell that had befallen her people, would have been averted. Now? Now she didn’t know what to do, who to turn to, who to be, and when all was quiet, Isabel had nothing to do but brood on that fact. Nothing to do but brood on _all_ those facts, that she was a horrible queen, a horrible daughter, a horrible friend, and an unarguably worthless mother. 

She was tired of crying, of pitying herself, but when there were so few actions she could take, what else was left?

Nicolai, resurrected, had said it best after he was done holding her down and feeding - her one worth to others was her stupidity, as it made her easy to use by those far more important than herself. Those words stabbed at her and undermined Isabel in a way she could barely fathom, for they preyed upon her worst fears, her confusion, and the absolute certainty that someone else would have been able to fend off the hordes of Sheogh, control the lords of the duchies, and unify the people of the Empire. Someone else, anyone else, could have done it, Godric could have, _he_ should have taken over. But no, she had thought, foolishly, that she could do as queen. That was her fear, her guilt, her bane, that place deep inside that Nicolai had stirred with an ugly snarl before his teeth would sink into the back of her neck where it joined her shoulder. For hadn’t she allowed Markal to rule her? Hadn’t she allowed Kha-Beleth to rape her, hold her prisoner, and force an unwanted demon hybrid in her belly? And even now, how easily she had been ruled by fear, guilt, and her poor judgement by allowing Sareth to stay behind? Logically, the way Isabel did her best to look at things, she knew that Xana had been right on the matter of leaving Sareth behind. Or at least as right as anyone could be in the situation. 

...And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Isabel’s best, with the information, experience, and resources on hand...just wasn't good enough. Because of all that, because she wasn’t enough, so many people suffered. 

“You’re not alone, you know,” Raelag’s voice was soft, a hand reaching back to lay atop her hip. “A burden shared, is a burdened halved, that’s what Mother used to say.”

Pressing her face into her bicep, Isabel aimed for firmness and strength, “No. I've let others take too much of my burdens, and people died in droves for it.”

“Mph,” a sound of distaste. “I suppose you mean in letting others take action and do the thinking for you? Is that what you feel happened?”

“How is it _not_ exactly what happened? Even now! Even now - look, you are here, my rescuer, and for what? Because I’m incapable, I’m useless,” fists clenching. “And now I even sound like a petulant child, whining that she’s not special.”

Behind her, Raelag rolled over, and one of his arms worked its way beneath her head, while a hand began stroking aside her hair so he could use her neck as a pillow for himself. She knew when he saw the scars on the neck by the long pause, his calloused thumb rubbing the spot. While it was too dark inside the tent for her to see anything beyond a few blobs, the faint glow of his eyes reminded her that he had no such problem seeing. And she tensed, because of the shamefulness of having torn Nicolai from the arms of Elrath, for having allowed him to feed from her, for having not fought him harder as he took whatever he wanted. Raelag could see the evidence of that, could see and touch those ugly marks.

Conversationally, “You know what I’ve always despised about the Empire?”

There were so many things a man like him could despise about the Empire. Honestly, there was much to dislike, at least when it came to the hierarchies. If it was just the church itself or the people as a general group, those were quite nice. 

Isabel asked cautiously, since he seemed to be uninterested in continuing without being prompted, “What?”

“The way they treat women.”

Isabel made a face and tried to squirm to face him - not that she would be able to see much other than his eyes - but his fingers ran down and along the shell of her ear, and one of his legs had slipped between hers, keeping her in place. “That makes no sense. Women are well treated in the Empire - all are equal under Elrath’s light.”

“In theory, yes,” Raelag agreed, and she could feel his nod by the way his nose rubbed at the crook of her neck. “However, I’ve watched the world for centuries now, and not just the world of Sheogh, or the realms of Ygg-chall. Orcs, Dwarves, the Nagas, the mages, the necromancers, the elves of Irollen... I've observed them all. And do you know what I noticed?”

“I’m not sure what that has to do with much of anything, but, I suppose you should put it together for me,” Isabel sighed.

“No, I think you’ll see what I’m getting at, you’ve never been one that required spoonfeeding except when you were ill,” another little revelation of his watching over her all her life. Isabel wasn’t exactly uncomfortable with how he spoke of her or the fact that he did so very fondly. It just was very strange to hear a person’s view and opinion on her moment to moment in that way. “Women aren’t pawns inside the Empire, that would be too obvious, and it would waste the resource of their minds and skills, breeding discontent that would lead to revolt in a fractured culture already constantly at war for all levels beyond those of the lowliest peasants. Instead, they’re more like...rooks, bishops, knights. They’re given very _specific_ powers, places, duties - but all of those things, they’re confining. There’s only certain movements they’re allowed to make, stuck permanently to the strictures of their roles. You were raised educated, able to fight, able to think for yourself, all with the intent that you would...protect the castle, raise somewhat intelligent offspring, and let the men do the real thinking, the real doing, the real planning. Oh, a passable husband would make the effort now and again to appear like he was seeking your counsel, yet you would really just be the one he unburdened on, your advice - if given - would be grunted at in acknowledgement, then ignored.” He grunted, “Likely because of your status as sole living heir, you would have, ideally, wed a brilliant, but somewhat lower compared to your station, military man, who would have at least listened a bit better for fear you would have the marriage annulled. Keeping you feeling valued, listened to, enough for him to maintain himself as a Greyhound Duke would be important to such a man. Conversely, he could systematically beat and berate you into a form that wouldn't question him, but the hope, the ideal, would be a man who at least pretended a bit better in that case.”

Finally she rolled over, and found he hadn't been holding her in place at all, at least, not beyond his simple touch. The lambent glow of his irises was muted, but revealed how close he was, they were very nearly nose to nose, and Isabel could feel his breath. This intimacy was a level she was wholly unfamiliar with, the entire situation was unfamiliar, yet she mimicked his calm to the best of her ability. That seemed to help at least, that, and, for some reason, the way he touched her was grounding, providing anchor, a quiet word to warn not to stumble over this or that thing...that’s what his touch was like. 

“And how is your world, then? Your society? Your culture?” Isabel asked, trying to see her own world from his vantage point as well as his own. (Books could only tell her so much, and he had been present for Ygg-chall’s formation, so who better to ask?) It wasn't as overtly horrible as she thought his opinion would be, and if she mentally squinted and cocked her head, she could see a few rough threads in the weave of the fabric of the Empire’s society that caused some of his distaste. “I can’t imagine it would be all that much different, how else would it function?”

“It functions,” a hand finding hers and tangling. “Ygg-chall has its own myriad problems, but it didn’t always, at least not like now. The main point of interest pertaining to this, is that women and men are complete equals. No one is surprised that more males go into the more physically demanding trades, but there are still many females who go into them, and vice versa. No one cares. The priesthood may contain more women, but there are still a few men in it. In the end, it is the fittest who survive, it is the fittest who take up any position they are willing to fight for. If they’re capable, then that’s all that matters, not what bits lay ‘twixt their legs.”

Isabel thought over that, then asked, “Who decides upon marriage prospects? Lineages?”

Raelag snorted softly, “We live for centuries, who would want to remain locked into a single marriage for all that time? My mother had five consorts, all volunteers, who fulfilled the duties of husband I suppose, but most of all, they assisted her in the running of the realm. She told them what needed doing, and the ones suited to whichever task - or, if there was more than one who was suited, she would say who was to see to it - would go about that duty or other. It’s the same for if there is a male head of a House. Mostly her consorts were...not exactly part of the family. They served a function, loved Mother, and she loved them. But marriage...marriage is not exactly a...” He was stumbling, searching for a way to describe his world, “There are those of us who enter what you would deem a marriage. Marriage is a contract, a social contract, that dictates distribution of goods, division of labour, and procreation, while publicly announcing to others that this contract is in place, making it difficult to change as so many had heard it.”

That hadn't exactly answered her questions, and it was a lot to think about. Face compressing as she repressed a yawn in that awkward way a person did when they couldn't just press their face into a hand or other convenient surface, Isabel mumbled, “Seems rather complicated and unstable. If there aren't any rules, then chaos takes over, Raelag. What’s to stop anyone from just...laying with everyone? You get brothers and sisters, uncles and nieces or...or...or even _nephews_ , mixing and making children. It’s just...it’s messy.” As well as disgusting, but she didn't wish to offend him.

He sounded amused, and she twitched as his nose rubbed against hers lightly, causing her to let out a sigh at the familiar gesture (it was one she did with Sareth constantly, just to make his eyes cross), “Incest? It happens, but no more often than it does in your homeland. How many times are singly removed cousins wed to one another over and over, resulting in babes with faces gone wrong at best, or mental disturbances that are violent at worst? Far more often than happens in the elves, and we go into ruts and heats periodically, resulting in an accident here or there that is a little closer than just cousins. But it’s _rare_.”

There was that ‘rut’ and ‘heat’ mention again. She wanted to ask for some clarification on all that, but her mind was wandering, and his hand was running up and down her back. Suddenly she realized Raelag had been working his magic on her yet again. Oh, nothing so nefarious as actual magical abilities, rather it was his calming influence, his ability to distract her from her pain by leading her around in rambling jaunts this way and that. It was as though the man couldn't focus on any one thing...not that she was much better. Actually it was mostly her who wound up asking questions that resulted in tangents that led away from whatever the initial thought had been on.

...Isabel was divided on if that was a boon or a curse, for if he could so easily lead her, then either she was weak, or he was very skilled at, well, _diversion_.

“Copper for your thoughts,” as his hand eased under her shirt so that it was her flesh he was running light fingertips over in that never ending path he had been following.

Isabel meant to say something else entirely. What came out was, “My breasts are in agony. They burn, itch...they’re swollen, and they just _hurt_.”

“Umn,” that had him flabbergasted. “Why?”

“I was breastfeeding still,” Isabel sighed.

“No time to wean, yes, that makes more sense,” instantly more comfortable. “Have you tried massaging them? If it hurts like that, my guess is that your milk supply is solidifying in place, which doesn't sound pleasant from the standpoint of someone who won’t ever have to go through that personally, so I can only sympathize.”

Uncomfortably, Isabel shifted in the dark, “It’s not exactly the best situation.”

“If situations were always ideal, then there would never be anything interesting to overcome,” he shrugged.

Unable to help clucking her tongue once in a scoff, “Oh fine, it’s not like you’re in close confines with someone you don’t know, vulnerable, and dependant upon them, while your bits and pieces feel mangled and brutalized ready to explode messily which may very well be a relief by that point, whilst waiting for the demands of payment to come, the other shoe to drop as it surely must, and terrified that your kin whom you were forced to leave behind, is going to bring about the destruction of Ashan. If you were, you would be singing a different tune!”

Suddenly his hand was cool along her back, “You’re not dependent upon me, Isabel. Not...not how you are describing it. I want no payment from you.” Isabel flinched as his entire body began to radiate cold, not ice cold, just cold enough to cool everything down, and he rolled over presenting his back once more. “If you press close, the chill may help the swelling and burning beyond massage. In the morning, a tighter breastbind may assist. That’s all I can vaguely recall Mother doing. That and something with cabbage leaves, though we’ve none about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In game, Kha-Beleth just hands over "Isabel" (impostor) after the final fight. However, he begins the battle saying she's pregnant, then later implies he has the child. Compare this to the expansions where Isabel was revealed to have actually given birth, and had some of her blood/soul taken so that Biara could pose as a good impostor. Well, this wouldn't make sense at all if time inside Sheogh moved in a linear fashion or comparable to the regular world. 
> 
> Instead, since it's the chaos realm, I posit that time adjusts to the person with the most power/strongest will. That would mean Kha-Beleth (basically) as the ruler of Sheogh, is the one who decides on how time passes. A few minutes in Ashan could be a hundred years in Sheogh. Or a few minutes in Sheogh could be a hundred years in Ashan. Now, unless Kha-Beleth is right there, or paying attention, certain people, with certain strength of will, can sort of...bypass that, or influence the passage of time. Raelag, once having been a Demon Lord, and as a massively powerful warlock amongst many other nasty skills, would be able to have some influence on the passage of time. As would Kiril Griffin (he's in Heroes 6, which is a game that's pretty much a prequel). So - time is bendy and wobbly and doesn't follow the dictates of the rest of Ashan. Basically. This chapter covers the course of years since Isabel gave birth (well, starts shortly after she gave birth) to when she is rescued, which, for her, was years after her capture, but only months for Raelag.


	4. Chapter 4

It was clear to Isabel over the next days, that Raelag was attempting to give her more space. Yet he was never far, his entire bearing watchful and wary. Oh, it wasn’t directed at her, it was at Sheogh itself, as though he were paranoid someone or something would come to steal her away. Why would Kha-Beleth (or anyone else for that matter) bother? She had served her purpose and managed to escape, wasting resources on recapturing her would be the least prudent course of action possible. But Raelag was worried, even if he smiled and talked with her about pretty much anything that came to mind.

Raelag had begun to enter their shared tent an hour or so after her, waiting until she had done what little she could to alleviate the pain in her breasts on her own, or cool off, or whatever. Usually she was anxiously drowsy by the time he would enter, ready to settle almost as soon as he lay down. Isabel felt odd, almost...guilty...like she was putting him out, delaying his rest after each day’s very long march. Overall, the most noticeable change, was that he was trying to act as a mere acquaintance of some sort, instead of what he was - a man who had come to save her on more than one occasion, at vast expense to himself and the lives of others, and a man who actually _did_ know her better than anyone alive, save, perhaps, Godric. And if he was alive, Cedric, since Nicolai had supposedly ordered Edgar’s death - at least that was what her undead spouse had claimed. What did it matter that she didn’t know _him_? Raelag _should_ expect payment of some form from her, because people didn’t go to such grand lengths for one another unless there was a good reason. 

Isabel had gone mad with the way she had driven towards resurrecting Nicolai, and was repaid with pain, her people and those of Irollen, assaulted repeatedly, unjustly, for her foolish fervor. She hadn’t been expecting anything in return, only praying that Nicolai would rise, and all would be righted... That she had been naive in believing Nicolai actually valued her, that she actually loved him, and that he loved her - no. No she hadn’t been looking for payment, only salvation for the people of the Empire. 

But Raelag...? It had to be different. He must want some form of recompense - why shouldn’t he? And, could she _honestly_ say he didn’t deserve something? Had his casual touches been so onerous? 

Finally she brought it up. “Raelag,” mumbling in the dark, making herself say it, “I do appreciate all you’ve done for me, and you deserve more than my thanks for it.”

There was a humming yawn, thoughtful, followed by a soft grunt, his body still radiating enough cool for her breasts to not throb quite so horrifically. (Not that it helped much, it was only becoming progressively worse, even with her twice daily expressing by hand.) “And I never even asked for your thanks, Isabel. None was necessary.” She thought he may roll over but he didn’t. “As for what I deserve - you do realize that the way you say it, it’s like you mean payment. Like I earned or purchased some good or service.” His reply was the closest to ‘testy’ she had heard him be towards her, “Well, I didn’t. Love and friendship are not goods to be bought and sold. I don’t care what Griffin morality says - ones ceding tracts of land, monies, and dowries! Feelings are formed on something a bit more than people being bought and sold.” Before she could say anything, all the tension bled out of him, his voice softer, “While I may pray for a chance to become someone you feel for, that doesn’t mean it’s something I am going to expect from you. You, your mind, your heart - these belong to yourself and no other.”

Grimacing at the back of his head, “You earned something, Raelag. At least time for me to hear you out, if not far more. People don’t -”

“You did, for Nicolai, you did much,” a rare interruption from him. “You love him, of course you -”

It was her turn to cut him off, her hand going to the side of her neck in remembered pain and shame, “I thought I loved him. I loved a man that didn’t exist, a man he wasn’t anything like! The truth of Nicolai was nowhere near the man I believed him to be.” Bitterly, “Even by killing him, you spared me a lifetime of that betrayal.”

“He was supposed to protect you, keep you secure and safe, I had no wish to kill him,” Raelag sighed, rolling over finally. “Even as an undead, I’ve rarely heard of such a hate filled revenant. Even those drawn unwillingly from Asha’s cycles of rebirth, it’s rare for them to be made of nothing but anger, hate, and spite. Death, to the undead, is frequently considered the ultimate form of perfection - not an anguish, hate filled existence.”

Isabel squirmed angrily, if she were outdoors, she would pace to get away from the feeling. Instead, she wanted the coolness of Raelag’s back, though it was now out of reach. “You’re right, bought and sold like a cow. That was all I was to be, something with a womb and udders to drain. If not Nicolai, then Kha-Beleth. At least you aren’t cruel.”

“Lady,” his tone, his touch that came to caress her cheek, was poignant and bittersweet, “I am what I am, and can never make any bones over what I am. And what that is - is cruel. I am cruel, a lord of slaughter, a widowmaker, I am even a kinslayer. Of the many things I am sorry for, my cruelty is one of them. Not for how it has affected others, because most people are unimportant pieces to me except when taken as a whole, but only how my cruel actions could have hurt you.”

What then was the nature of a good man or an evil one? Nicolai was counted as a good man, a good soldier, a good monarch - until he was perverted by necromancy. This, of course, discounted the fact that his mother had been a necromancer herself. So, a good man, friend, son, king, soldier, this is what Nicolai was considered, remembered and recorded to be. But how many knew of his easy orders given to kill a wounded squire who had retired to an abbey to become a farmhand? That death was given to ‘make certain’ Isabel wouldn’t be tempted to elope with someone other than Nicolai. How many knew of Nicolai’s orders that most everyone she knew from the abbey, other than Beatrice, be banned from Isabel, so she had no true familiar people about her? His intent was to get her pregnant as fast as possible, as often as possible, use her up, wear her out, keep her unbalanced and in unfamiliar settings so she was tractable. There were those in Talonguard who did their best to continue to follow those orders, to undermine Isabel left and right, no matter that their king had been dead. 

Corruption ran through the Griffin Empire, hidden under the guise of Elrath’s light.

Kha-Beleth, well, nothing needed to be said there - there wasn’t an ounce of anything good in him, not a speck, not a mote. She hoped he was currently still wracked with suffering, so that he would know a breath of what he had put her through. It’s what she would have to settle for, when in reality, Isabel merely wanted the Demon Sovereign dead, destroyed, never to harm another ever again. For her, it wouldn’t matter if his demise were fast or slow, so long as it was final. Still, none would ever view Kha-Beleth as anything ‘good’, at least beyond a good orator, good at showing his vast evil, it made him easy to hate, that uncomplex loathing and distance could be directed squarely on the Demon Sovereign in a way that couldn’t be rightfully done much of anywhere else.

Across from her, so close they breathed the same air as she stayed close enough for some of the chill he radiated for her benefit could do what little it was able to, was Raelag. A self admitted villain. A selfish, cruel, violent man. One who was asking nothing of her in spite of his obvious longing. Had she ever known anyone to wear their heart on their sleeve so openly with her?

Then there was herself. Was she good? Could she claim to be that? No...no she had done too many evil things in the pursuit to protect her people. A protection she had ultimately failed to extend over them. Now the fruit of her loins was birthed, a creature meant to bring ruin to all of Ashan. 

“You’re cruel you say, so you feel, yet you’re not being cruel now, and instead it I who is,” Isabel chose her words poorly in all likelihood. “While I can’t give you any promises, Raelag, I can at least give myself a chance at having a good friend.”

Calloused fingertips traced her brow briefly to her cheek, the touch itself so impossibly intimate, yet for some reason it wasn’t an action that felt invasive or like he was presuming upon her person. Whispering huskily, the faint glow of his eyes shuttered to slits for a moment, his tone grateful to the point Isabel should consider it obscene, “It is more than I would dare ask for.”

Sighing, “When you speak like that, when you touch me like that, if I weren’t so,” damaged, bitter, confused, afraid, “out of sorts, I would be inclined to kiss you. Or kick you in the ankle, not certain which.” Grumbling, she rubbed at her sweat coarse tunic and the agonizing burn of her breasts, “The last may be because these blasted things are evil and unpleasant. How women ever consent to childbirth, I haven’t a notion!”

And there came that laugh, that chuckle that was familiar. “It may have something to do with the fact that under average circumstances, making one can be rather fun. Afterall, my mother did it three times. Though she also probably had someone to assist in easing off production, no sudden stops...”

“I thought you said you had three siblings?” curious.

“Menan and Sylsai were twins, I was rather displeased with their appearance, for it meant that I could no longer be her favourite,” said with a philosophical shrug. “Competition when you tend to be a rather quiet child, isn’t exactly easy to deal with. You and Erunia are peas in an outgoing, adventure seeking pod, while I, I was quiet to a fault. Give me a book and a tree to sit in, and that was all I desired. Or a unicorn, or a panther, or a lizard mount to tend, hie off through the mountain forests in the silence where no man or woman speaks. Getting words out of me as a child was like prying teeth from an angry dragon.”

Sympathetically, “Poor woman. Three boys and only one girl, how did she ever survive that with her mind intact for any length of time? Sareth about drove me mad with how much he felt that a mother shan’t even take a bath on her own, let alone go to the chamberpot.”

Snorting, “Says the girl who insisted on accompanying grown men to the outhouse. Or would race about having somehow managed to lose all her clothes before diving into great puddles of mud, the horse trough, or the pond. The girl who somehow managed to find her way to a _tavern_ , clamber into haylofts where adults were busy with adult things. Now the shoe is on the other foot!”

Isabel couldn’t help a soft laugh of her own, “Was I really so horrid?”

“Absolutely the worst,” Raelag chuckled without any venom, his arm having found its place around her waist. “And I wouldn’t change any of that, not really. You just liked being around ‘your’ people, whatever person you felt like, you simply wished to be close. Nothing wrong with that. You were happy, healthy, loved, well cared for, and safe. Which is exactly how it should be.”

Settling back in to go to sleep, “You know, it is most irregular and unfair that you have me at such a vast disadvantage. Your brothers are passed on, your father, you have a set of twins in your family, you’ve a sister you speak impossibly fondly of... You’re bookish, intelligent, a man of quiet action, your hands are those of a man accustomed to hilts rather than a mage’s staff...”

“If I told you that Ashan has forgotten that we free clans were great, a force to be reckoned with, that we put a blade to the Holy Falcon Empire’s throat on one side, and Irollen on the other, roaring our freedom as we threw them from our backs, that we were truly unified for two hundred years - would you believe me?” He truly did sound curious, a little tired too. “If I told you that, for some reason, the memories of my people, your people, the people of Irollen, the Silver Cities and more, have been...edited...would you believe me?”

Now here was the cost, the price.

It was steep in a way Isabel hadn’t been expecting. Raelag was asking for her trust, for her to believe more than what she had been taught by tutors of every stripe. To believe a fantastical, improbable tale that sounded like fiction. How could all of Ashan forget something so big as Ygg-chall having been ‘great’? And also, what was Raelag’s definition of ‘great’? As far as history knew, the Dark Elves, while an nuisance, had never been consolidated under a single ruler after Tuidhana died. Of course the Empire had paid reparations to the Dark Elves for their part in trampling over the Dark Elves’ lands when that entire folly of the Angel-Faceless War had really proved to be a war incited by the Demon Sovereign...

“Define ‘great’,” Isabel instructed him, willing to listen.

“Have you ever heard of the Invisible Library?” 

She had, Kiril had spoken of it, as had Xana. Frowning, “It had been held in Sheogh for quite some time, a Faceless construct, and a place that Kiril supposedly guarded. He didn’t exactly say how it had been pulled from Sheogh.”

“The Faceless and I pulled it from Sheogh, purified it in the waters that the greatest Tear of Asha was hidden in,” the revelation improbable. “And once it was pulled through, it was pulled along with Kiril and a few other Demon Lords, quite annoying. In the end, I thought I slew the Griffin, who also happened to be the son of a woman that I...admired a great deal. A woman whose sister I had...” He paused, skipping whatever he had intended to say there. “She was originally of Stag Duchy, before she was wed to Slava Griffin, and bore him four children, much as my mother had born four... I believe - no, that’s nothing but speculation.” Raelag made a frustrated sound, “Malassa’s Dragon Knight, Cate Griffin. Malassa needed a Dragon Knight for what came... She and Mother had much in common beyond the number of children and a set of twins... Mother died before Cate. Perhaps Mother had been Malassa’s intended Dragon Knight, and the Dark Mother settled for another.” Softly her cursed, “No, that doesn’t make sense, Cate was a Dragon Knight by at least a year when Mother died...”

Offering, “Maybe it was Malassa’s flightiness? A flip of a coin. Or even that your mother declined the Dragon’s gift?”

“I would wager the coin is more apt,” Raelag’s distaste was apparent at the notion. “If Mother was willing to go to civil war against Arniel, secede from Irollen so that Tarlad stood on its own, and then stand her ground when Varniel and the Falcons decided we were at fault for all evils in the world, I can’t see Mother turning down the burden of becoming a Dragon Knight. It would be counter to everything she was.”

Isabel mulled it over, finding herself getting more comfortable, limbs tangled up with the Dark Elf’s - simply for the comfort of the contact, no other reason beyond that. History had been one of her few favoured studies that could keep her still as a child, and much like Raelag’s professed penchant for sitting in trees with books, she had also done the same. Usually nestled amongst roots though, Edgar nearby singing a work song as he tended the vast trees of the orchard. The only woman to have made a ‘deal’ as he was implying with Malassa, who had -

“Tuidhana,” the name of the great rebellious queen breathed as she realized who had born the man beside her. 

“Was a decent cook when it came to fresh fruits rolled in honey, an hour set aside each day for us no matter that she had much to do,” he revealed. “And a villain when it came to pounding the details of ruling into my head.”

“You preferred solitude, though,” Isabel frowned to herself. “Ruling requires much dealing with people, hands on, always mediating this or that, making decisions to be relayed...” He just grunted agreement and she found she was actually a bit horrified for him. “It must have been agony for such a quiet child...”

There was a shrug against her, dismissing it, “As the eldest, it was my responsibility to speak, to plan, to oversee, to lead. With enough practice, even the truly withdrawn may appear outgoing.” An amused sound, “I blame my father entirely for that disposition. He wanted _nothing_ to do with people. Only his faerie and pixie trees had any worth. The few times I attempted to communicate with him, he chased me off with spells flung as a few of his favourites decided to flirt with me, playing with my hair, tugging at my clothes.” Raelag shuddered, “Child sized creatures, what he saw in them, I can’t say. Certainly their sweet inquisitiveness may have some draw, but they aren’t company. Not really. Even I needed contact with complex minds, thoughtful conversation. But, like him, I am considered a bit...eccentric, quite deviant. At least I prefer thinking people rather than child like animals.”

Nose crinkling in distaste, Isabel thought of the pretty little faeries she had seen, the picture he had painted more clearly than other mentions, leaving her feeling dirty on his behalf. Yes, they looked quite a bit like women, but pintsized. Little things with small bosoms, round little bottoms, and not much on them but flowers and fronds. She hadn’t considered if they had any applicable...parts. It was an offputting idea that left a nasty taste in her mouth.

“ _Why_ would anyone want that?” she sputtered, appalled. “They look like children, but with...with...breasts.”

“Ruts, heats...most magical animals spring from copulation with elves, Nagas, Angels - Light elementals come from human priests in the ecstasy of prayer, I may add,” Raelag was accepting of it. “Even if the heats and ruts tend to be more of an elven problem, I couldn’t speak for Nagas or Angels. Oddly, humans don’t have them, or, not exactly the same way. When a human is fertile, is always consistent, there isn’t any period of time, beyond a few years in adolescence, where the drive is so high that it causes them to do unarguably stupid things.”

Isabel huffed out a laugh, “You mean like mate with trees and horses?”

“Hrmph, unicorns, pixies, and trents had to come from somewhere,” Raelag protested. “I do not make the rules, I only suffer through their effects every twenty-five years, and need to imprison myself somewhere for two weeks. Bloody irritating. Though it does explain the elven penchant for what we feel is diplomacy. If you want to demonstrate unity or sharing of something, someone is doing some sort of mating dance somewhere, shedding ‘magic’, and laying with as many of the other side as possible... Something about believing blood is thicker than water.”

They were quiet and Isabel was on the verge of sleep, when Raelag offered, sounding almost...embarrassed, “Would a massage with cold hands alleviate the discomfort?”

Feeling equally awkward, Isabel shifted, “I express a little bit of the pressure, but the massage doesn’t do much on my own. It’s just...heavy, burning, and throbbing. If I could just get enough out, it wouldn’t feel so full. It’s like when you have a heavy...umn, need to use the chamberpot, but nothing happens. But worse, far worse. Mostly I now understand and sympathize with the rather upset lowing of cows with full udders in a way I never did before...”

“Oh,” his wince audible. “Then I suppose I’m not much good in this situation.”

A snicker found her, joking, “Not unless you were willing to take a drink.”

Raelag did what could only be defined as a ‘squirm’, “I would do it if you thought it would help. The thought of that much discomfort makes me feel rather...desperate to do whatever I can to help. If you wish to see me act like a chicken who has lost its head, when your monthly comes, that would be good for a laugh, I’m sure, as I try to find hot water bottles and something to prop your feet up on, maybe even search for some sort of sweets that you find favourable.”

For a man who professed to be cruel, he could be rather distressingly sweet, unable to cope with another’s unhappiness.

Brow arching, Isabel managed something that crossed between a tease and prim propriety, “You’re quite certain it has nothing to do with wanting to see me without my shirt?”

“Lady, the sight of breasts, lovely as yours are, and as favoured as the person they’re attached to, is, the mere sight and touch of breasts aren’t enough to drive me mad with hunger,” his reply playful in its sincerity. 

That was how she found herself shirtless with Raelag’s mouth on her breast. It was about as awkward as she thought it would be, though it helped that the Dark Elf seemed as equal in his uncertainty of what he was doing. After a few moments of fumbling, the pressure began to slowly ease, and she could only release a heartfelt moan of relief. His tongue was slick and icy cold, not like a vampire’s undead cold, but the chilliness of actual frost and ice. As odd as the whole situation was, it felt best to keep her arms around his shoulders as he settled into a rhythm. Warning him just before she felt completely empty, he switched to the opposite, granting her sweet succor. 

....

Grueling days, though she found come their meal when stopping to rest for sleep, her portion had been increased. Raelag would hand over a goodly amount of his evening rations to her, his justification that he was still taking in sustenance his only reference to the deep relief he brought her before sleep and a partial draining upon waking. On one hand, it should make Isabel feel ashamed, yet, it didn’t. She had been defiled by others, this was something she chose for herself instead, and there was nothing in it but a friend helping another friend. That he seemed to gain something from the intimate contact was something that shouldn’t be dismissed either, Isabel wasn’t so daft as to think he wasn’t receiving as well.

With that discomfort eased, she found she was better rested, and able to forget to brood before sleeping. They would spend a few minutes talking beforehand, about whatever came to mind, though it was frequently about his early life, his opinions on current matters, people, what made him laugh... Isabel was aware he was trying to let her know him so that when she had actual room to breathe outside of Sheogh’s poisoned air, she would choose him. That was what he wanted, though he never brought it up, and when she was the one to, he would - once again - insist that whatever she chose, whatever she felt, was up to her, he refused to make demands or push her in any direction.

The air changed as they rounded a seemingly unassuming bend. One moment they were in the hell of Sheogh, the next, black night illuminated with glowing moss, strange veins high overhead on stalactites shed light of a wintry blue, while the stalagmites in the floors had mushrooms and other fungal blooms that were purples and greens for the most part. Her eyes had a hard time picking up much, yet there was a collective sigh, a soft whisper from all those around her, whose eyes were so sensitive to light. As for herself, Isabel also sighed, a weight off of her bent back, unpinned from the unhappy burden of Sheogh’s overbearing presence. 

What she assumed was black basalt was a flinty clop under Rani’s hooves. The air itself was moist, mineral sweet, yet had an undercurrent smell of dust, probably for the fact that they were deep underground surrounded by rock. High overhead, several stories at least, was the soft light she had noticed initially, but as her own eyes adjusted, she saw flitting shapes weaving between the rock formations overhead. 

“Bats,” Raelag stated simply. “Other game animals also. Hunting in Ygg-chall is different than above. Mostly very large, deadly game, but smaller things like bats of all sizes are common. Spiders, too. There used to be more variety.” The stone in the dragon’s mouth that was the end of his staff, began to increase its latent glow, going slowly, until there was enough light for her to see more comfortably, just not anything approaching what a human would generally choose for themselves. “Better?”

A grateful smile was thrown his way, “Much.”

“Torghrul,” Raelag’s voice lifted, “send the scouts to find where we are.”

The minotaur snuffled and growled his assent, his hooves striking up sparks with each lumbering step. It was a deceptive movement, for Isabel knew firsthand how fast those ungainly appearing beastmen could move. She had a feeling, however, that just because they were now in Ygg-chall, they weren’t entirely safe. 

It was more weeks of marching, sometimes on foot, just to give their mounts a rest, though other times, she found herself in Raelag’s saddle, her arms around his waist as he would shift forward to give her plenty of room. The great lizards were better suited to walking long distances in the caverns compared to Rani. When they first chanced upon a good sized pool, a bath was finally had, the army halting in spite of not having traveled very far that day, because one and all could use the morale boost. Raelag was true to his description of himself though. He was far more reserved with his people, whom seemed to actually be relaxing for once, and while even to Isabel’s eyes they came off as aloof, avoiding much touching of one another, they still conversed and interacted a great deal. Yet Raelag, Raelag had to suss out a situation before he would slip in close enough for a few words here or there, his bearing on the surface easy and firm, but Isabel knew what his actual bearing was like. Those outside interactions were scheduled, their merits weighed and assessed before being acted upon. Only with her was it different - well, her and their mounts, whom he was entirely easy around. With her, Raelag was almost downright chatty, but just as often, he was content to be quiet, sharing the silence with her. To her, he would reach out, a hand brushing against hers, or a companionable shoulder pressed to hers when they would sit to eat. 

Moments when she noticed those things, Isabel found herself almost wishing she felt deeply for him. Or at least more deeply. Mostly she found his presence comfortable, steady, reliable, soothing, granting her a security that she had thought long gone. Of course that security was an illusion, she made her own security - or at least would try to - it was still nice to have someone present that made her feel that way. Being realistic, Isabel looked at how he treated her, and knew, without doubt, that she would likely never be able to do better than him. A woman of the Empire didn’t _have_ to love her husband, and frequently, they didn’t. So long as their husband took care and provided, a woman was expected to do the same - love had little to do with it. She had been a silly girl to think that marriage to Nicolai would have been deep or meaningful, that it would be sunshine and Elrath’s Light. He had wooed her with words and gifts - though honestly, what use did she have for gaudy necklaces and expensive dresses of samite? - promises of high living (and what use did she have for that either? She liked riding and fighting, mucking stables and fishing!) A lucky woman had her husband for a companion, someone she could get along with, raise children with, and expect some respect. Even there, Raelag had been correct in his unvarnished assessment, as much as it tasted bitter and gross to look at her people in such a cold assessing manner. 

The more moments Isabel had to think on her own with a head that was becoming clearer and clearer, she had to wonder at her own cynicism. If she was a realist, she would admit that Raelag was the sort of man a woman would be lucky to claim for herself. A man who would go to vast lengths to see to the safety of whatever belonged to him. There was no greater security or partnership than that. 

What she felt for Raelag was actually a bit more than many women were able to gain... She would be foolish to not consider taking him up on his unspoken offers. By the same token, he didn’t want her to do more than she ‘could’. Isabel wasn’t certain she should inform him of just what Nicolai had demanded of her, what Kha-Beleth had taken at his leisure repeatedly from her. Isabel could close her eyes and cope, not that she had any doubts as to whether he would harm her or not. He wanted more though, and that Isabel wasn’t certain she could give him, or anyone for that matter, ever again. 

Returning with her cleaned and now dried clothes bundled up in her arms, Isabel noted how Raelag’s face brightened, a slight smile forming as soon as he caught sight of her. It was a look of easy going happiness, as though she had lit up his day, just for seeing her. Swallowing thickly as that hit her in the gut, Isabel felt an angry howl deep inside. If only she had followed him when he asked, even as a Demon Lord. If only she had loved him, or discovered him, if he had revealed himself sooner - she could have had that this whole time! She would not have suffered Nicolai’s loss, the shame of being pummeled on all sides by the fractious nobles and duchies that were supposed to band together to throw off the demon invasion! She wouldn’t have gone to war against her own people, using necromancy, and ripping Nicolai back to Ashan, where he revealed himself to be a horrid little man. (Not that she was utterly convinced he had been that terrible in life, but Nicolai as a vampire certainly was persuasive in his vitriol and toxic evils.) Isabel wouldn’t have gone through all that time, all that nightmare, she wouldn’t have born Sareth! She wouldn’t have loved a child that would bring damnation to them all! 

Sickened by the morass of feelings - Isabel bit her tongue. She could hate him for his cautious nature, for how he hadn’t revealed himself, for how he hadn’t just...taken her away. She _could_ , in theory, blame him for that. Suddenly she understood his garbled, rambling mutters about a ‘perfect world’ where he had acted more decisively, didn’t care so much about her own feelings and preferences, where she wasn’t so much herself and insistent upon taking her version of action. 

Not that Raelag was perfect, oh no. If love stories written in books or sung by minstrels or passed along by mothers to daughters, were to be believed, a perfect, truly doting man, would be aware if a woman was in a tumult, even when she was hiding it. Raelag just smiled that same, content to see her smile, commenting that clean clothes were almost better than having a clean body after their march. A march which wasn’t over. As perceptive as the Dark Elf Clanlord was, he wasn’t clairvoyant, thank Elrath for such small mercies. 

That night - again, just like Sheogh, these definitions of time were outside her ken, for, without the sun or moon, Isabel couldn’t tell time - when Raelag sat on their shared pallet, Isabel lay a hand on the small of his back. She could do this, and maybe it would make her feel something real. Raelag had grunted in acknowledgement of the touch, but didn’t react any further than that, until she worked at the hem of his shirt, lifting it up to touch the flesh beneath. 

Glancing over his shoulder from stitching up a hole in a sock, his expression was bemused, “Isabel?”

Hazarding, “It’s a bit unfair if I’m the only one without a shirt on. It’s not like it is very cold down here, no reason for you to be uncomfortably overheated and encumbered.”

Raelag’s high winged brows furrowed briefly, then smoothed out once more, “I’m not uncomfortable. As comfortable as sleeping on stone floors can be, that is.” Head cocking, “Unless you mean that you feel a bit exposed, while I’m completely covered?” The word was tested out, rolling around in his mouth, as though he wasn’t quite sure of it, “Vulnerable.”

It was a plausible excuse. Except for one thing. Isabel had been a bit of a nature child, something to despair over, with Beatrice scolding her, the veterans, squires, farm hands, monks, brothers, and sisters, of the abbey had frequently rolled their eyes heavenward when, during particularly hot summers, down by the pond, Isabel could be found in rolled up trews far over her knees and a breastbind, and not much more. The retired soldiers who comprised the workforce of the abbey usually just shrugged after it became apparent she wasn’t inclined to change, and then treated her as they would any of their fellows gone shirtless in the heat. The clerics of Elrath on the other hand, would scold, call down worriedly, and avert their eyes, admonishing her to cover her torso more. Shirtless, for her, only made her feel exposed, wary, uncomfortable, when hungry eyes devoured her, or when being stripped of layering cloth was meant to symbolize the stripping away of protective covering. 

Considering they had bathed together and the fact she had seen him fully nude, sliding into the spring, his body covered in more scars than she thought humanly possible, Isabel thought there wasn’t much of anything _to_ hide. But, watching him, she realized, that for him, he felt that there was. He was cautious about having his gloves off where others would see, and the only reason she could think of, was that he was bothered by his scars. Of course there were more, so very many more, all over his body, from the bottom of his jaw down. Curiously, it was only his face that was devoid of them.

Because she had asked it, or indicated it was alright, Raelag was removing his deep navy shirt, folding it just enough to have it out of the way, but not so much that yanking it back on would be an involved process. Convenient for if their camp was attacked, though how much protection a simple shirt would provide was debatable. Then again, Isabel mused that the magic of Ygg-chall was very different from what was in her own world. Perhaps his clothes were an actual armour of a sort, spelled to resist various types of attacks. Now that would be a rather neat trick.

The lines were measured, uniform, those were the odd scars, the unexpected ones. They were the ones that drew the eye more than the dips and gouges of blade, spell, or arrow. Tracing one as he returned to mending his sock, Isabel curled to the side on the pallet, head propped up on her palm. Were these from his armour? Recalling how Kiril’s gauntlets had slithered and slurped back into his flesh when she held his hands, Isabel repressed a shudder. Yes, that was exactly what the scars were. 

Asking, “Why aren’t they on your face as well?”

Beneath her hand his back expanded with a breath, the admission coming slowly, “They are. The first spell I managed to cast after the Rite, was a glamour to hide them, make me less...identifiably different.”

“Even with me?” Isabel’s brow furrowed. 

“It’s easier to maintain if I don’t let it slip,” a shoulder hitching. “They are disconcerting. And for a people who regularly mutilate their bodies for the sake of beauty, that is saying something.”

“Half of Edgar’s face was slashed and burned by balefire,” Isabel continued to frown. “I liked him just fine.”

Head turning, she caught sight of his high cheekbone, with a great veined razor cut and straight line of scar tissue welting over it, “Surely an exception to the rule. A comely face tends to be better received except in the odd situation.”

Blinking a few times, Isabel sat up, Raelag was very still awaiting her judgement. “Have you ever seen Kha-Beleth’s face, bared?” 

A furrowed line appeared over his nose, lips pulling down, “No. It’s an honour that I was spared.”

“His was the face of perfection,” Isabel replied succinctly, as she examined Raelag’s face. “I found him sickening. Other than his flawless visage, I’ve never seen a man as beautiful as you.” Adding, “And unlike Kha-Beleth, you are the farthest from sickening as anyone could ever be. Flaws or not, the world would be hard-pressed to find a man as handsome and lovely.”

“Now you’re just stroking my ego,” lips twitching into a canted smile. Poking fun at himself, “Playing with my vanity, hmph. Did a little Griffin tell you that Dark Elves are vain?”

Lips pursing on a suppressed smile, “No, but he did call you a womanizing drunkard.”

“As to how he even knew that, unless Cate told him his aunt was a focus of my attempts at...diplomacy, and the aftermath of her death,” at first he smiled, then it faded at the last, and he shook his head, freeing himself of the memories. “A drunkard for years and years, driven only by the need to protect my portion of our people... Until I failed even in that, and abdicated to my youngest brother, in hopes he had the strength to do what I couldn’t do reliably...” He sighed, “So disappointing. And look at them now, a few centuries they were great, respected, the memory of which has been wiped from all of Ashan, unless I merely dreamed it as a Demon Lord... But no, Malsara is quite certain as well, and rather irritated, I may add.” Disgusted, “You would think that with only a few centuries without someone putting boots on their neck, and braided leather to their backs, they would have managed to keep themselves better afloat!”

It was a frequent source of his frustration, his irritated words, brief flashes of anger that would surface, and then... Then he would sigh, all of it falling away, and Raelag would look defeated. All the masks were gone when those repeated - yet so very short - fits came. Laid bare to a person who had only wanted to find a comfortingly quiet niche to share with a few people who knew and didn’t mind his need for that safe place. Naked in those seconds, Raelag looked so lost, with good sized chunks of guilt peppered through it all. It was as though he had an internal litany that said he should have done better, that if only this or that had been different, if he had been a stronger or different person, none of it would have happened. 

It was in those moments that Isabel felt the closest to him, felt her own similar accusing list of crimes and shouts of uselessness in her own mind was loud and difficult to ignore.

And in the privacy of their shared tent, those revealed minutes lasted longer. Minutes of being completely unguarded. Now, even more so, for he didn’t even have the glamour hiding away what he thought was ugly to others. 

Moved to act, Isabel could do this. This is was something she could do, could give, to Raelag with ease. Comfort.

Taking the partially mended sock from him that he was staring at, not even seeing it, Isabel drew him sideways and back down to the bedroll. “You can’t fix everything, Raelag,” she reminded him gently, trying not to shiver when he tucked his face into the side of her neck. “You’re but one man.”

Wiry muscled arms wrapped around her, “The same holds true for yourself, Isabel.” Her name was a forlorn and wan prayer this time out of his myriad ways of saying it. “We can’t change the nature of our peoples, even when they race headlong into dangerous situations, uncaring of their own destruction on the horizon. No matter how hard we try and work to avert those disasters, how much we care for them, they will still do whatever they will do when we aren’t watching their every single move.”

His lips touched the ragged marks Nicolai had left behind. Isabel had felt him do that a time or two, usually when they were both mostly asleep, then it hadn’t seemed quite so strange, for she had been too asleep to really take note the exact spot his mouth was on. She couldn’t help the fact that she drew a deep breath, tensing, while his lips moved as though he were speaking to the scars. 

Shuddering, “Raelag,” a note of discomfort ringing loud in her own ears. 

The soundless murmur was repeated, this time with enough breath to it for her to make it out. “These wounds are my shame, these wounds you took because I was afraid to move swiftly enough. For that, you suffered so much. I would do anything to undo my wary cowardice, to have spared you this.” It was a whisper, uttered several times into Nicolai’s bite marks, then he tucked his face in the opposite side of her neck, the motion repeated. It had the air of ritual, penance, and sorrow. But Raelag didn’t stop, nor slacken his hold on her until he was finished, this time his apology was more sheepish than emotional. “My apologies, Lady,” and for some reason whenever he addressed her with a title, it didn’t seem to put much space between them, it was more of a...form of admiration or respect, showing that she was someone with control and power rather than just himself being the one with all the cards. “I find that...it assuages a bit of my guilt, even if I don’t particularly deserve it.” Clearing his throat, “Perhaps not the most polite of actions.”

Isabel agreed, nodding, “Perhaps not.” Leaning in close enough, she hesitated for a moment, and kissed the vertical welt on his chin where the cheek guards had come down over his face and melded. “We both carry unhappy things that, when exposed, make us a little...uncomfortable. If you can share yours with me, there’s no reason I shouldn’t share mine with you.”

If it were possible, his eyes darkened from the electrical lightning lavender, to a deeper, darker aubergine, voice dropping lower, “It’s appreciated, Isabel, but you needn’t worry of denying me anything you don’t wish to share.” 

Still, he was flushed, odd as it looked to her eyes, what with his mostly white skin suddenly turning pink here and there. Either her motion and words had moved him...or he was very aroused. Isabel wasn’t tempted to wiggle to find out, maybe some other time she might satisfy that curiosity, but it wasn’t now. 

That didn’t mean Isabel had no urge to do something, acknowledge the intensity of the moment. Swallowing, held surely in his gaze, returning it after her own fashion, “I should kiss you, I would be daft if I didn’t want to when you speak like that.” Especially considering his obvious state and the look he was giving her when combined with his thoughtlessly easy, undemanding, self-restraint. 

The Dark Elf hummed low, arms tightening as he dipped closer, but instead of taking her not-quite-offer, his mouth pressed to the top of her shoulder. They broke apart long enough from their quiet embrace for the bit of mending to be finished, tomorrow’s gear near to hand, and then the light from his staff was dimmed down to nothing but a whisper of a glow, not much brighter than the one his eyes threw off. With a scoot he was quickly in position to alleviate the turgid ache - one which was manageable now, with him taking her to empty before sleep, then enough in the morning to ensure she was comfortable for a goodly portion of the day. Customarily he would give a few firm massaging, kneading strokes to her breast with a cool hand before settling in, but this time he didn’t start off that way. The broadness of his full mouth pressed over her breastbone, followed by a deep inhale as she wound her usual arm around his shoulders. It was only a minor little change; quite pleasant in all truth, and Isabel relaxed into the relief he would grant her with firm, long suckling pulls at her engorged nipple with his tongue slipping and sliding around it to further encourage the flow. Afterwards she always woke up a little to the sensation of Raelag giving her nipple a brief lick, a low heal spell soothing the frequently tender pearl. Easy, familiar scooting to tangle comfortably, and Isabel slipped fully into blissful sleep, her face tucked into the back of Raelag’s shoulder. 

....

Coming upon a wide cavern, Isabel brought Rani up short, her breath stolen away. 

Before her, the cavern shone with diffuse golden light, which was picked up and echoed by the walls and ceiling of the cavern, studded with large chunks of crystal. Shallow water lapped over the cavern floor, perhaps ankle depth, yet farther off Isabel was certain the water was much deeper. Giant pads held flowers of fantastic breadth and size, their colours eyebright and loud. That wasn’t all, for towards the center of the cavern, spiralling horns of rock curved like the long seashells of little crabs and some kinds of mussels. Each was a shade of purple or blue, the spiralling holding vined plants in delightful shades of green. Between the strange village or outpost, were trees in floating boats. They were miniature trees, yet they all were fruiting and flowering, and for once, there was such plentiful light that she could actually see all that without having to concentrate. 

“Hrmn, it has been a long time since I saw a Naga town.” Raelag had come up, his lizard Trexie stopping, her breathing a low rumbling growl of curiosity, head lifting to sniff the moist air. “Good, we are on the right track. Now, let’s see if we can barter for a night of dry, comfortable sleep from them.”

The sharkmen - wanizame, frog like creatures - the kappa; these were unsettling to see moving through the town’s streets, water splashing with each of their steps. Some of the others were less disconcerting, at least above the waist, for they looked more like humans...until they began slithering along, their powerful tails pushing them while holding their bodies mostly erect. Raelag’s army were also wary of the strangest race on all of Ashan. Centuries ago, they had supposedly withdrawn even deeper from the Thrallen continent, turning inwards, avoiding contact with the constantly at war kingdoms there. 

With a tinkling, musical bloop as their boots landed upon the smooth, mossy rocks uner the several inches of water, she and the Clanlord dismounted to approach a temple with its carved representation of Shalassa, Dragon of the Sea. It was debatable which of Asha’s children was most gentle and violent. Some would say it was Sylanna, who loved eternal all things of earth, plant, and animal. For if roused, she would swiftly turn, throwing the might of nature itself, the world as a whole, at any that dared prod her to wakefulness. Others would say it was Shalassa, who was deep and wise, containing all the knowledge of those who moved through, over, and near, water. Without water, nothing could survive, and Shalassa’s waters, her tears, were the sweetest and most kind of all...yet she frequently was a raging sea, lazily swatting anything that was daring enough to not pay her due respect when crossing seas and oceans.

A priestess awaited them inside. Seashells, ropes of pearls, shined corals of red, pink and orange, were woven through her sea wild green hair. Scales of blue and silver dusted her angular cheekbones, framing her fishwide eyes, lending her an innocent appearance. Or one that was perpetually in shock, Isabel couldn’t decide which. Overall, she was beautiful, the long dress of mermaid silk and plaited plant fibers covering her tail down to the floor. If Isabel didn’t know that the scales had grown from the priestess’ own flesh, she would think a human woman who had gotten into some fabric dyer’s supplies was before her.

Raelag commenced an odd, deep bow, spine straight, arms at his side, as he bent at the waist, intoning a formal sounding greeting, “Shalassa’s wisdom to you, granting you a long strand.”

Flickers of lightning moved through the priestess’ eyes, echoed by a rattling slither from the last segments of her tail, tapping against itself, hollow and strange, for back home, in the Greyhound Duchy, such a noise belonged to venomous snakes. “May your night embrace you, shadows confound enemy and prey, Malassa’s mark give you potent whispers in the dark,” she replied, the words subtly sibilant. Head turning slowly, Isabel found herself inspected, “Elrath’s Light guide your way, Falcon woman.” 

Pulling some of her languishing skills in diplomacy to the foreground, Isabel smiled, dipped a partial bow of her own, “A long strand to you and yours, and Shalassa’s song in the water fill the hearts of yourself and your town.”

The priestess gave a faint smile of her own, and a nod of acknowledgement, looking back and forth from them. “Few come this way to our hidden cove where we have remained undisturbed for many years. For what do the children of night come to us?”

“A span of resting hours of shelter, nothing more,” Raelag swore. “Though we’d not turn aside a chance for bartered supplies, it has been a long and arduous trek winning free of demons. We may have left them far behind, but it is still a long ways before we reach one of the ancestral homes and would be grateful for any neighbourly assistance of any sort.”

The request was mulled over, and the priestess slithered gracefully forward, then between them to the doors of the temple. For a long time she looked out at the gathered army, assessing them and their supply wagons. Forming up beside her in tinkling ice and sprays of foam, a beautiful, ethereal woman took shape, her words a burbling liquid song in a language Isabel didn’t understand as Shalassa’s priestess listened, head cocked to one side, hand on her trident, the fingers moving restlessly in measured taps.

Suddenly all the water receded on one of the open areas on the outskirts of the town, where the floating boat troughs were, leaving dry, dense sea moss covered ground under it. More of the water and ice women formed up, pulling and drawing away from that space, while a soft word from the priestess waved a rippling flow of stone, creating mounds to rise up in the now dry area. Low walls no more than knee height acted to keep water out from that space, while the flowing beings sang back and forth in what seemed to be deep amusement. 

“You may rest, and if the barter offers are fair, we will be content to trade,” she said, an enigmatic smile gracing her features. “And if your destination is within comfortable distance, lines of trade would be welcome, for we receive not much of it, or the word of the lands outside of our short reach. Good neighbours are difficult to come by.”

As Raelag had moved ahead to take the steps back down, Isabel turned to the priestess, “Many thanks, Shalassa’s daughter, this is appreciated more than you can know.” That got her an honest smile, and she added, “I’ve never seen such a beautiful place before, we only have old accounts of Naga descriptions these days. To think I’m seeing it, is amazing.”

Especially after the ages in Sheogh. The under realms held their own beauties, and those had been drastic and lovely changes from the hell world, but this Naga town was like finding an unexpected pearl in the dirt. Released from the short interview, she trotted to catch back up with Raelag, who seemed unaffected by the otherworldly beauty around them. That was sad, but it wouldn’t stop Isabel from enjoying it at least.


	5. Raelag

Raelag followed the routes of his older memories, the deep caverns of Ygg-chall being moved through, farther and farther from the currently inhabited areas. His army was increasingly wary, though they were faithful in following him. He had, after all, brought them out alive from action that few could. This fragment of the Shadowbrand, Starshot, and Nightshard clans, had been chosen to become a seed for a tucked away fallback. Halris, while it was safe and yet stood, sent whispers in his dreams that it wasn’t wise to return to such easily accessed paths. The same for Thralsen, much to his irritation. Instead he guided the army to Turok-tai, a Faceless bastion, one of the last inhabited places where Faceless congregated in any numbers. 

As they moved deeper, the terrain, lifeforms, changed to something far closer to what he remembered during his reign. Hunting and foraging was almost plentiful, though cases of poisoning increased, his Dark Elves had far weaker constitutions than their forebearers. It kept Isabel busy with healing and purging those who were afflicted the worst. There was the added benefits of making her, herself known to their soldiers, instilling a handson respect in them for her abilities and presence. It also engaged Isabel’s mind, helping push back at the brooding that she suffered from that had been brought about her many ordeals. A unifying action was good, it brought comfort and hope in a steady way, different from the large, loud, and overt methods most would look towards.

The deeper they went, the louder Malassa’s whispers became, and he had to struggle against them. They gave him a headache, leaving Raelag to fight against paranoia - he could ‘hear’ dissenting secrets from many corners, ones that were past, present, or future. That was part of the problem with Malassa’s mark, it could leave one second and triple - and quintuple - guessing oneself, because distinguishing current facts from future possibility was so very difficult. It left him cleaving to Isabel whenever possible, listening to her, using her as a grounding anchor. He did his best to not press, to only take what she gave him with an easy bearing, the moment she seemed uncomfortable, he would withdraw, even if he felt an aching need for longer moments. A held hand here or there, sitting close, her arms around his waist when they shared a mount, and the fullness of his senses surrounded by her when he would ease her breasts’ discomfort. Those were what made it easier for him when five different, conflicting, whispers were telling him this or that. 

Brief skirmishes with the wildlife that had been abandoned, left to languish in these far removed territories, had Raelag wanting to reach into himself, into the tangled skein of shadow that was increasing in size. Within himself, Raelag felt his birthright stirring, the one bequeathed not just by his mother’s bargains, and his being one of the very first - as in the _second_ \- Dark Elf, nor the pledge of the Onyx Circle, but the birthright that Malassa had stamped into him herself. It stirred and seethed, fought his control, and Malassa was singing to him, she wanted to possess him, even briefly. He wouldn’t let her, which irritated his goddess. Raelag had things to do in the _present_ world, ones for the people, and most importantly, Isabel’s safety - not for Malassa’s glory. He was only a limited champion and refused to do more than what he absolutely must. So he resisted the call to explode into shadow, into Darkness, and become its agent, though it was painful to remain contained when those battles sometimes took a toll.

Turok-tai was awake when they arrived. No signs of slumbering for centuries, instead, its magical defenses hummed and muttered to themselves as his army entered its walls. Doors were open, awaiting them, welcoming. He would be more suspicious if all of Malassa’s whispers, and Malsara’s grumbles of irritation weren’t so clear. It was under their will that the Faceless bastion was awake and waiting for them patiently. The shadow dragons of his army flew, taking roost, bellowing back and forth in satisfaction at the ancient nesting spots. Food gardens had bloomed forcefully, their hibernation thrown off, as need awoke them. In any event, in spite of that, there was still work to turn towards. Mines of sulphur, gem, crystal, and gold needed to be stirred, lumber mills fixed up, and any routes to the surface scouted. Threats needed to be assessed, and breeding stock for food secured. 

In short - as well kept as Turok-tai was, their arrival was just the tip of what must be done to establish themselves.

Later, much needed rest, and a long, soaking bath beckoned. Raelag disrobed quickly, a hand testing the water of the soaking pool and it began to heat at his behest. Isabel wasn’t with him for the moment, taking some time to walk freely and on her own, and while he would like very much to shadow her, he also would like some time to relax. As much as he would also like to take Trexie and pick a random direction to hie off to, or go exploring through Turok-tai, being somewhere where Isabel could easily find him was important. 

Rubbing his face, he frowned, fingers heating up to scorching temperatures while his face itself remained icy, and he burned off the stubble that had grown. It didn’t feel particularly pleasant, but without a mirror he wasn’t going to be shaving. An old standby, it was better than allowing scraggly hairs to take root. Isabel may have been open minded enough to describe his face - even without the masking glamour on the scars - as pleasant, there were some lines that shouldn’t be crossed. A wispy goatee and a thin mustache were all he had ever been able to grow, which made him look like some weak stock villain in a poorly realized play of no quality whatsoever. At least he never had suffered Sylsai’s issue of baldness, Raelag was certain it had probably come from some spell gone awry. After all, his youngest brother hadn’t possessed the necessary patience to be any good at even the most basic of spell schools, but that hadn’t stopped him from making attempts. Comparatively, Menan had been a genius of casting ability, but a poor fighter in physical combat. The eldest of the twins had a thick head of healthy hair and, so Raelag had heard from amused women, had also been on the ‘furry’ side overall. Either Menan got all the hair in the family, or Sylsai had ruined his own, while Raelag himself was stuck in an irritating between place. Erunia, lucky little witch, was rather an almost exact reproduction of their mother, all save the colour of her hair - white instead of Mother’s blazing crimson. He would wager that _she_ had a perfectly proportional amount of hair - enough to be luxurious, but not so much as to be a bother.

....

Isabel was picking over the basket of fleshy fronds, mosses, leaves, stems, petals, fungi, and roots she had brought from whatever her explorations had yielded. “One of your matriarchs said these were all edible,” her intense oak leaf green eyes focused curiously on a mostly orange toadstool veined in black. A careful sniff, “It smells nice enough... Though I’m more accustomed to game.”

He agreed taking a beast ear mushroom from the basket, “They are edible,” demonstrating as he took a few bites. “Mildly euphoric. Women use it during monthlies and to ease the pain of birthing. Makes a good snack, wards off mild headaches, or at least lessens the impact of what’s in other foods.”

She eyed him, “Euphoric?”

“There aren’t many animals here that eat strictly plants,” Raelag shrugged, sorting through her treasures, separating by toxicity. “No sunlight and an environment that is mostly rock, has created a place where the kinds of plants that survive, are hardy. They survive by being difficult to consume, even the mildest of our plant matter has some effect other than filling one’s belly.” He held up a spongy, flat head of a wall growing fungus, “Sweet fungus, or bread fungus, is one of the most plentiful things we grow. It’s like the little white dough rolls Lady Greyhound would bake on holidays, the ones made with juice to be sweet. At least in terms of taste.” Raelag peeled the top layer off, exposing the dense, creamy interior, “This is the part that is safe for outsiders to eat, though it will make you feel as though you have gotten into the abbey’s cider barrels.” Shaking the exterior layers a little bit, “This part tastes better, but in someone without resistance, it would make you falling down drunk by the time you got through a single serving. Too much of it at once over the course of several days, and your innards could cease working as you’re accustomed to. The cramping results in many unhappy hours.”

Isabel looked appalled, “And this is a staple? Like potatoes for the peasants?”

“Potatoes, cabbage, bread,” he shrugged. “Most of the animals are omnivorous, and will eat whatever grows here in the under realms, as a result, even the meat is somewhat...altered.” 

Shaking her head, “No wonder Dark Elves are considered half mad most of the time - you’re all pickled.” A succulent leaf was selected, examined, then snapped in half, the milky interior juice releasing a peppery perfume that was quite nice, causing her lids to flutter closed as she enjoyed the smell, and Raelag watched her, munching on a few things here and there. “It really does explain so very much,” one of the increasingly frequent smiles touching her lips and Raelag had to grapple with the urge to touch them. 

There weren’t any protests when he traded out a few of the things she was sampling for the dried rations, at least not until he tried to switch the fireflower in her hand for some of the jerked hydra. “You shouldn’t eat so much of that,” he once again tried to pluck the crimson and orange flower from her. 

“Why not?” Isabel’s pupils were a little off, perhaps the equivalent of having had several ciders, which wasn’t all that much for her, he had seen Isabel in times past pack away almost a half dozen tankards in a single meal. “You’ve had an entire bunch.”

Brow quirked, “Do you wish to stand on the table, topless, singing bawdy songs off-key, while shimmying about? Because eating more is how shaking assets at strange men like me comes about.”

The look she gave him was skeptical in that way only the vaguely intoxicated could manage - all scrunch faced, jaw jutting upwards, and head forward of its usual position on the neck. “You ate an entire bunch,” she repeated. “Why aren’t _you_ up on the table?”

A laugh broke free, and he pointed to himself, “Elf, Dark Elf specifically, with a Dark Elf’s constitution, gained over several centuries and the first eighty years down in Ygg-chall, I spent consuming every single intoxicant I could find, just to manage the burden of leading. It would take the weight of a minotaur for me to even become wobbly.”

Isabel sighed theatrically, letting him finally take the fireflower from her, “That’s just too bad, I may have enjoyed a dance.”

It took him a moment to realize - more than a moment - that Isabel had been flirting. Perhaps just a little bit. Was he really that far out of practice reading people? 

No, he was just too close to see, and even then he could be wrong. She had, after all, managed almost an entire meal of Ygg-chall’s typical foods, her behaviour would be a little off and tipsy. It made him glad that several of the supply wagons that had been hidden around the exit from Sheogh were laden with seeds, bulbs, and cuttings of more surfacer fare. A gate could be opened to the surface directly above them to be scouted for what was in the surrounding area. If it was suitable for some agrarian cultivation, more to the good. 

Mossmilk was a green tinted dairy white in their cups, the closest approximate comparison being to lemon rind flavoured hazelnut milk, and they went through the chilled pitcher of it rather quickly. It would be a good thing to trade for from the Naga, as they were the source of the particular strain of moss, which - fortunately - had no psychotropic effects to it. Engrossed in his quiet thoughts on what must be done to make Turok-tai fully habitable, Raelag relaxed, noting that Isabel had gotten up to poke about the apartment he had claimed. While she was out exploring, he had given orders to some of his troops to make one of the adjoining set of quarters brighter and more appropriate for Isabel’s tastes, listing the things he knew she liked. Not that much could be managed, unlike Thralsen and Halris, Raelag hadn’t had a hand in readying the place. His old holdings were well stocked which had meant he was able to make better concessions for Isabel’s comfort in Halris and Thralsen. Here, the best he could do, was her own space, brighter lights, and some greenery. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Raelag’s brow beetled, realizing Isabel was unpacking their gear with businesslike efficiency. A song was hummed as she rummaged through saddlebags, set armour on stands that hadn’t been used in several centuries, the cleanest of their clothes shaken out and draped here and there, or put in the large armoire... He watched, entranced by the so very mundane activity, but it was when she began to put her things beside _his_ that Raelag’s breath hitched. So she wasn’t left to do all of it on her own while he enjoyed the view, he finally rose to assist. Working beside Isabel, taking this or that thing she handed him, or her taking something he handed her, or showing where the typical hidden cubbies were in Faceless construction - it harked back to his rare daydreams. 

With a hand, he eventually stopped her, or drew her to a halt, fingers tangling with hers, his other hand reaching for her cheek, as he searched her expression. Offering, “Turok-tai is fairly large, Isabel - if you want, you don’t have to share with me.”

She looked away, fidgeting, “Where else would I go? Back to the Empire?”

He didn’t like that idea, but he shrugged, “If that was your wish, yes. But I meant if you wanted your own quarters, or - or...”

“You went to Sheogh for me not once, not twice, but three, four times was it?” 

“Only twice directly, the rest were outposts, and outskirt bleedovers, nothing more than technicalities,” Raelag clarified.

The sarcasm wasn’t particularly biting, but it was present. “Oh, well then, it must have been far easier than I thought.” Rolled eyes and crinkled nosed, Isabel leaned her cheek into his hand more for a moment, letting him know she was just making light. “You fetched me at great loss, then have hauled me to this place that clearly hasn’t been inhabited for quite some time...holing up, digging in, hiding away from something. Either you feel that there is yet more danger still, or you want to run away from everything, and fully intend on bringing me along.” She paused significantly, “Which is a decision you have earned the right to enforce. I’m a passenger on this breakneck ride. You know the destination, I’m just a follower.”

Seriously, “The Rite of True Nature has to be undertaken, and you need time to heal after it. But it can be done anywhere you choose to be... I just felt here would be safest, with the least amount of pressures to be put on you.” Raelag searched for a better words, “I didn’t mean to make you feel as though I had absconded with you like a thief in the night with ill gotten gains.” Reiterating, “Anywhere you wish to go, you are free to...”

“You’ll just tag along?” brow arched.

He couldn’t help a snicker, “Right on your heels, hiding in your shadow to fry anyone who got too close.”

Isabel stepped away from him, returning to putting things away, “Then it’s best I stay with my healer and rescuer, than to make him chase after me room to room. Besides, your company is comforting -” she paused, back going straight as a thought occurred to her, “- unless you want me to be in a different set of quarters?” Looking over her shoulder at him, he watched her uncertainly test the words, “Or...if it’s...easier on you? Because I’m not certain I can give you what you wish...”

Coming up behind her, Raelag grasped her waist gently, leaning into her back, so he could press his cheek to hers, “This is good.”

Isabel turned, a pair of trews in one hand still, her arms going around him, and she lay her head on his shoulder, “It is.”

....

A bowl of hydra ashes was mixed with the dried blood of many Soulscars Raelag had disposed of during his rise to controlling the free clans. Isabel was watching his preparations, pretending not to with a large volume in her lap on Faceless poetry that had been found in Turok-tai’s library. Spell components were mixed and ground where he sat at the heavy stone table in one of the smaller atrium gardens that adjoined the nicest of the residential quarters in Turok-tai. He remembered Mukao once explaining how the Faceless cities had been mottled in their uniformity, since the Faceless were individual fragments of a whole, conjoined gestalt. The coming of elves - even before his people had fled the surface and their kingdom of Tarlad, forsaking the sun above for the dark below - had changed that. It had forced the cities to be renovated, most specifically ones that had suffered wildly during the Elder Wars betwixt Faceless and Angel. Those modified cities that Dark Elves congregated at, were a bit more friendly to those who couldn’t fly, though could still be treacherous in terms of footing, long drops with a sudden stop and the like. 

The small, open gardens, were at the center of each block of residential quarters, a series of apartments that rose up several stories - or descended, depending upon the city’s layout, and if the city itself was built into one of the massive outcroppings of stone or not. The purpose of the gardens wasn’t just for courtship trysts, growing plants, or places for children to run about (not that there were any children presently, but he had it on good authority that a fairly large portion of the matriarchs were carrying babes already to bring new life to the bastion). No, the gardens served other purposes, chiefly educational areas and good for magical practice of the subtler arts of Dark Elf magic. 

At the large stone table, the very center of it was the obsidian of a starless night. The light sucking void of a Faceless’ wings. It wouldn’t remain that way for long. Further grinding and mixing up the components for the spell, and Raelag finally withdrew one of his earrings to drag it across the top of his forearm, hissing the mouth torturing words that activated the spell. Bubbling, steaming, shaking, the bowl filled with components wobbled around, and Raelag traced sigils in the air that formed, hanging in lilac perfection, before they melted to nothing but whispers. With the spell primed, he finally added a single snip of hair from Erunia’s hair, a fraction of one white piece, no longer than half his pinky. 

With that added, the obsidian center snarled and writhed in on itself, detaching from the great table’s center, spinning in place until it appeared to be a sphere. Within that sphere’s shape, the vacuum abyss existed, then latched onto its intended target. Erunia’s face bloomed into existence, the image then pulling back, to reveal she was sitting at her vanity in her quarters.

...She also wasn’t wearing much, and she was rather surprised. “Brother! Raelag, you’re back, but I’ve not received word...”

Cocking his head, “You’re receiving word now.”

Erunia frowned, “Not from my agents in Thralsen or Halris. Where are you?”

“One of the older bastions,” he shrugged. 

“Not Konos,” she stated firmly, certain. “Or it had best not be Konos, or I’ll have your ears.”

Wryly, “I didn’t know I had to have permission to enter my own capital city.”

“You don’t, but it would muck up all my wards, and then I’d have to start all over again, and I hate doing that,” grumbling, then she looked around behind him through the mirror. “Were you successful?”

Raelag held a hand out to Isabel, motioning her to come close, “Isabel, this is my sister, Erunia. Erunia, this is Isabel.”

Appearing awed at the magic, Isabel took a moment, hesitating, before her greeting came forth, and she sat down beside him at the table’s bench, “Greetings, Erunia, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance finally. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Erunia actually _squeaked_ with her excitement. “Malassa’s starred night! You didn’t say she was so pretty!” Shoulders scrunched up, his little sister was leaning forward eagerly, her fists under her pointed chin, “You’ve probably only heard horrible, terrible things about me, like making off with his spellbooks, or doodling penises and boobs all over his troop missives when I was little. Or that I would steal the last of the baked butternut squash from his plate at dinnertime.”

That got a laugh, and Isabel gave him an amused glance, before looking back at Erunia, “Not at all. Though there were mentions of how irritating little girls could be, chasing after such and so grown up to see what they were doing at any given point in time. Also, penchants for stealing blankets and pillows from beds to make forts, climbing things up too high and getting stuck like a treed cat.”

His sister smiled, “He always had to climb up and haul me down, with me crying and screaming in his face.”

“Oh! Poor man,” Isabel sympathized. “That’s awful.”

Sitting back, Raelag finally added his bit, “Isabel just jumped as soon as she saw someone with open arms.”

Isabel blushed, “Because whomever was below was someone I trusted to catch me, as they always had before. Not that I jumped into just anyone’s arms, mind you, there were really only a few I knew would catch me.”

Erunia’s eyes twinkled knowlingly, and she rose enough to find something to wear, her voice carrying through the scrying portal, “So, since you’re not in the expected place, but have still arrived safely - how are your supplies?”

Clearing his throat, Raelag leaned forward, “Holding, but we’ve limited stores in certain foodstuffs, medicines, and tools. It will be several months before what we have for seed stock has taken, and only the lichens, mosses and fungi will be producing anything.”

“Clothes, paper,” Isabel added. “Or materials to make both, linen or whatever is used here, for binding wounds. The mines are being mucked about with, but I don’t know how quickly they would be able to produce anything useful.”

Erunia nodded, “It may take some time for anything I send to reach you.”

“I intend to open a gate,” he revealed. It was a taxing undertaking, but to have assured supplies gated in quickly was of grave importance. “Send only those you trust, but can also spare - I’m not comfortable risking anyone returning for the moment. Some smiths would be rather welcome.”

There were a few other pleasantries, Isabel and Erunia clearly enjoying each other’s company. It was nice not to be the one drowned in his sister’s words, expected to keep up and actively participate rather than listen. Erunia would be able to contact him later in a similar scrying, since she had in her possession quite a bit of his own hair, and a small jewelbox of his dried blood. It was plenty to help her hang onto the memories that were trying to flee, with more than enough leftover to scry him as needed. 

....

Isabel wasn’t scolding him, that was something. Erunia would scold him. Shadya - no, _Biara_ \- would scold him. Ylaya, also most definitely scold him. Sorshan, Menan, Malassa’s night, but _Sylsai_ would be tearing strips into him. But Isabel?

No, Isabel was calmly, with the sort of brusque efficiency of combat experience, standing over him, her shield up, sword pointing and casting, while he fought to hold his guts in. Of course the others, save for Sylsai (who would have _still_ found a way to berate him a thousand times for a fool), wouldn’t have to defend him so physically, they had powerful magics that slew from afar en masse that weren’t overly taxing and could be cast in quick succession. Isabel had some, but she was pragmatic, saving it for good chances to take out a large group at once with her fewer area effect spells. So she didn’t really have breath to be yelling at him for being an idiot. 

The massive nest of scorpiocores he and the beastmen had been after had been far more difficult to subdue than he thought it would be. Last time he had faced so many, he had a rather large group of beast-tamers on hand, matriarchs and witches to corral and remind the scorpiocores just who they owed allegiance to. Not so this time. This time it was himself and a few dozen minotaurs and scouts, Isabel as well, since she was suffering a bit of cabin fever. Definitely a miscalculation on his part, not his brightest moment, not at all. How could he have forgotten that he was a warlock these days, not a nightblade? Sneaking in and out wasn’t his forte so much anymore. Not with lumbering beastmen all over...

A stinger was lopped off and landed with a twitching thud beside him, Isabel roaring in the face of a great beastly specimen, shield arm hooking out so she could grab one of the foot long fangs. With a wrenching tear, the human warrior ripped the fang out, one handed, her other arm swinging to blind a second scorpiocore. The angry beasts both keened and screamed their distress, and she pressed her advantage, beating them with blade and shield, snarling and screaming as loud as they. Dizzily, Raelag was muttering his healing spells at himself, which kept him awake, aware, and most importantly _not bleeding to death_ , as he lost track of time. Other than up close and personal views of his innards, Raelag was treated to Isabel stomping this way and that, furry and chitin covered body parts landing this way and that, and if he had been on Trexie’s back - or even upright - he would probably be very impressed.

Isabel always was an avenging Angel on the battlefield, resurrecting and healing soldiers, or throwing down shockwaves of light - but for the most part, wading or charging in lightning fast dashes to decapitate or sunder limbs from body. On horseback, she was a force of nature. On _foot_ she was a nightmare, for she got up close and personal with her opponents, standing her ground like a wall of steel and spite. Any lessons he had taught her back at the abbey - mostly comprising of the dirtiest of dirty tricks from horseback or on foot - had been refined and expanded upon. It was a point clearly shown when she slammed a spike booted heel into one of the venomous beasts’ paws. No body part was safe, she maimed just as much as she killed, keeping between him and danger. 

Groaning, Raelag gathered as much mana, will, and concentration as he could, peering between the back and forth of legs stomping heavily this way and that...and cast. 

The ground trembled, shooting cracks radiated beyond the embattled knot of his soldiers, throwing the grounded flying beasts to the side. Isabel’s voice cut through the din like diamonds on flint, cracking clear, ordering the scouts to unload volleys into wings and eyes, then a second order to hack at legs. Axes, picks, and swords beat down on the scorpiocores, forcing them back, twisting them into a retreat. The beasts keened, howled, and whined, creeping, limping away, battered or the remains of severed tails, stuck between their legs. Later, like after he was upright, healed, and with far more backup, they would return to clear out most of the nest and take the young and a few of the older ones to be brought back into the fold.

Isabel ripped much of his cloak to shreds, using it to tie his middle flat, and he found his arms locked and pressed over his torso as added insurance, before she wound more of his cloak around him. “Gulrag, Caltor, I want you to carry him like this,” she was motioning, and showing them how she wanted him picked up. Further orders were snapped out, “Wounded, center, archers, center, walking wounded, carry those who cannot move on their own! Those in better condition, outer ranks, form up in a diamond - front and back!”

He would say something, but Isabel’s focus was on everything around her, distracting her probably wasn’t the wisest course of action, so Raelag muttered another heal, and concentrated on not screaming with every step the two beastmen took. 

Once again, he had lost track of time, and found himself focusing once more on Isabel. They were near one of the healing springs that burbled to themselves. Fairly rare outside of the towns and cities in Ygg-chall. Compared to the surface, the realms below didn’t have many of such wells, springs, or streams, so finding one was a very lucky happening. Hands covered in gore, they were gently pulled from the gaping wound, Isabel’s expression intent on his abdomen rather than him in general. Her helmet was beside her, filled with water from the spring, and she used it to bathe his wounds, examining him. 

Gaze on her - because it was an infinitely more attractive view than his intestines, “Well this is embarrassing.”

She didn’t even glance at him, engrossed, “What? That I came to help?”

He managed a laugh, until it ended in a groan, the pain wracking him, “No - you rescuing me isn’t a problem. It’s my miscalculation.” Confused, he squinted, “Why would I be bothered by you saving me? And you definitely saved me...ow...if I survive that is.”

Isabel did look at him briefly, but didn’t say anything, just frowned.

“Erunia would probably say it was sweet and romantic,” head thudding back down on the ground, cushioned by wadded up fabric from somewhere. “Then again, she always was rather taken by those books from the surface. The more tawdry, the better. As to why any woman wants a man with a stomach that looks like a washboard, I’m still trying to figure that out. Not like it’s useful to actually use in a washtub.” Gasping when her poking about as she bathed the gaping wound, “Me? I’m just grateful you were here, grateful you saw fit to save me. Be a bit detrimental to my continued breathing if I died...”

Finally, “You’re the oddest man I’ve ever known.”

Confused, Raelag squinted at the ceiling that soared so very high overhead, “Huh?”

“Nevermind. Let me rinse this whole area free, see what you’ve managed on your own,” it was his only warning before he choked on a howl, the crisp healing water cascading over his ravaged flesh.

Panting, “I’m a terrible healer, I mean, I can do it, but not as good as - argghh! _THAT HURTS! MALASSA’S SHIT WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!_ Oh **that** can’t be good!”

Mumbling, “Says the man who regularly cuts himself up for spells, throwing the blood this way and that, like he’s tossing rice at a wedding.”

Lifting his head enough to see, “Your _hand_ is in my **stomach** , of course it hurts! It’s also very disconcert-” he paused, catching sight of something he didn’t know the name for, and tried to sit up slightly so he could see better, “Hey, that’s interesting. What’s that?”

She swatted his hand as he reached for himself, “No, no, no, don’t touch anything, don’t pull anything out, Raelag, that’s still attached and it should _probably stay where it is_.”

It was sort of too late as he had a hold on the small organ, which was trailing a few odd vessel like tubes, “Umn,” he held it out to her, “I don’t think that was supposed to come out either...”

Isabel glowered at him, “I think that’s an appendix, you don’t need it so much, and it can take a beating...” Voice going lower, mumbling to herself, “I hope.”

....

Isabel’s heartbeat was soothing right under his ear, steady and it drowned out the undulating throb of pain in his gut. She had patched up physically what she could, then healed it into place several times over before she had been willing to move him again. Then she had tended everyone else after him, and was clearly all tapped out. She had even drawn down to empty, reviving those who had succumbed, bringing them back to life. Only a few were too far gone for her magic to heal them. Beside him she had slept fitfully, every few hours she would make him down some more healing water from the spring, then check him over carefully. Eventually they had moved back to Turok-tai, after a small group of the fastest scouts had been sent to fetch wagons to transport the wounded, and those who were worn out, to be guarded by those fresher than those who had come out with them.

And now, ensconced in their quarters in Turok-tai, Raelag rested, his head nestled between her breasts, listening to her breathe, her blood move through her veins, and her heart’s measured song. He couldn’t remember a time he felt that secure anywhere, maybe not since he was a little boy. As Edgar, he had lain with his head in her lap plenty of times, but that was different. It was, in essence, a bit of a lie, for she had believed him to be someone different, so while it had been soothing, relaxing, it didn’t... It just hadn’t been like this. This was something else entirely. Just what, Raelag couldn’t say, instead he took the minutes, hours, spent like that, basking in their unique beauty.

Fingers twisted and toyed with his hair as she held him, sharing her own quiet with him the way he often shared his with her. A particularly deep breath on her part came with her pulse speeding up both under his hear, and inside his own chest where hers echoed, “I’m not going back to the Empire.” Her announcement took him aback, but she followed up with, “Unless there’s some reason I must. There isn’t anything for me there.”

Carefully rolling onto his side instead of being draped partially over her torso, Raelag propped his chin on her breastbone, puzzled. “Not that I seek to dissuade you, Isabel, but isn’t being queen something? Or duchess of the Greyhound?”

Her gaze was firmly affixed above them at the polished stone ceiling, “Once I would have said that I was responsible for my people, for protecting them. And I would have believed it, as well. As queen, it was my duty to defend the Empire and Church from invasion, to maintain the order of law, and mediate disputes amongst my subjects.” 

That didn’t sound so bad to Raelag, well, it did, but it sounded right, it was, after all, the purpose of any ruler. “What makes you believe otherwise?”

“Firstly, the nobles,” Isabel sighed, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. “Always bickering, finding some way to undermine what authority I possessed, countermand every decision or act - _in spite_ of the fact that we had a Demon invasion on our hands, and the land was in peril. They would not listen, not at all. Not even a little bit. They would do as they would do, no matter what the cause or reason presented to them. A ruler can only rule by permission of their subjects, and if those with power refuse? Then the ruler is nothing at all.” She grimaced, “It’s why Markal found me such an easy mark, I was desperate to bring the nobles in line, raise and maintain supplies and men sufficient to the task of combating the Demons. He offered what seemed to be the most reasonable and efficient methods of doing so. Bringing back Nicolai, whom the others all listened to, would have quieted all the bickering...at least long enough to drive the Demons back.”

“Hmph, this isn’t a problem we have, dissenters are killed until they stop dissenting,” Raelag grunted, disapproving of the cumbersome politics of the Empire. “While it’s been carried a touch too far in the last centuries, historically, it works well. Humans breed faster, killing off the treasonous shouldn’t be so hard...”

Guilt and aggravation moved over her features briefly. “And as Markal’s puppet, in my drive to resurrect Nicolai, I did plenty of that. I made war against my own people, allowed them to be... _harvested_ for undead armies. They fought well, mostly mindless, against the Demons, against their living brethren, but still, I allowed that evil to happen. Nay, I _encouraged_ it, embraced it, believing it to be necessary. We invaded the Silver Cities, perverted and tainted them too, killed a sovereign monarch, and then harvested every living thing we could for more fodder... And still there was dissent, dissent from the common folk, the merchants, the military, the Church, the nobles... It was all around me then, it didn’t cease.” Shuddering, “Then Nicolai was brought back, a fiend under Markal’s control, used to terrorize not just the people I had wanted so very much to keep safe, but the innocent bystanders of Irollen, and what few of the Silver Cities had managed to escape that slaughter...” 

Raelag began to sit up, but Isabel tensed, wary green eyes fixing on him, and he lay back down, ear back over her heart, and draped his arm over her middle. “For every bit of information and experience you had, you made the best decisions out of a nasty lot. If you had done nothing, the Empire would have been overrun. If you had abdicated, you would have been viewed as entirely weak, and made a fool of the monarchy, while opening up room for a full succession war. The nobles would fight over the throne while the hordes came to invade in undeniable force. With that, a nation would fall, from the power hungry arguing inside a burning house. Think, if you hadn’t done anything, if you just sat back and did nothing, what would have happened? I can’t see it going much better. An ignored monarch, feuds would have exploded back into the open, once again, leaving the nation a house burning down ‘round everyone’s ears.” Firmly, “You made the only set of decisions that would have safeguarded anything.”

“If I return, it would just reopen issues of succession,” Isabel pinched the bridge of her nose, the words gritted. “At worst, another civil war, where I am either deposed and then executed for crimes, or another civil war where I succeed and am forced to become a tyrant. At best, a vote of no confidence from all, and then I am packed off to a convent.”

He growled, “If you returned, you would have the resources of Ygg-chall to find those who would cause problems, dispose of them discreetly, and no civil war would be brooked, and then, when things settled down, you could relax. And the only convent you would go to would be if you chose to sequester yourself that way.” Grumbling, “I would rule below, you would rule above, and the balance of the world would return. Definitely it’s a heavy burden, but if it were what you wished, there’d be no reason for it to be any other way. We would share in our own autonomous ways, and back the other one up as needed.”

That garnered him a tight smile, and the fingers in his hair moved to his scalp, massaging, “Has anyone ever told you that you can be very sweet, Raelag?”

With an uncomfortable grunt, he pressed his face into her chest, mumbling, “You have options.”

“As for Greyhound Duchy, well,” there came some of the wavering uncertainty, “Father died when I was twelve, and it’s since been ruled by stewards and distant family members in trust for the day I took control. So it’s run, managed responsibly whether I’m present or not. They don’t need me.” Another deep breath, bracing herself obviously, “Nicolai has a young cousin, Andrei, who is a Griffin. Without my presence, the hardliners would all rally behind him as figurehead, and hold the Empire in some sort of balance until he could take the throne. With me ‘dead’, everyone is forced to solve their issues well enough to hold steady. The Demons are retreating or being routed. Without me, there would be no upheaval and the Empire can continue to mend itself.” With more surety, “One person doesn’t make a nation that large, but what that person represents, can break it. I’ll not be an instrument of further harm to the Empire, but what’s more, I won’t be used by it either.”

Raelag nodded, shifting again, upwards this time, to brush a brief kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Wherever you wish to be, you won’t have to go it alone unless you choose to.”


	6. Chapter 6

Elven babies, Isabel decided, were probably the goofiest babies on all of Ashan. She hadn’t known until asked to assist in some of the birthings, that a good handful of the Dark Elven women were that far along. Or even pregnant for that matter. Bat like ears wriggled and flopped with almost every head bobble, and their glowing eyes frequently crossed, or they woke up because the light from their own eyes bothered them. Sareth just farted himself awake, these poor little things would paft low grade spells accidentally in their sleep, small hands and legs flailing about, then they would awaken, confused, startled, and rather put out by such developments.

Not all of the new mothers were particularly interested in spending the necessary amount of time with the babes, tending to all their needs, either, further complicating the issue. This was clearly one of the downsides of Dark Elf society Raelag had mentioned frequently. Well this she could handle. Just because she was one of those present with the best Light magic skills, didn’t mean she had to expend them every day on anyone wounded, so instead of spending several hours in the infirmary, Isabel spent only a single hour there every other ‘day’. The other hours she would generally use to handle, sing, hold, nurse, or change any of the newborns that needed it. Even those whose mothers did carry them about, would frequently drop them off for some time to themselves - which was actually a very nice benefit to the setup. 

For Isabel the activity was bittersweet. If she stopped to think about it, all she could do was see Sareth, and the pain she felt would be immeasurable. In a way, that separation had been the final nail in the coffin to her willingness to return to the throne. Women, mothers, in the Empire, didn’t get to keep their children, no matter how well positioned or qualified. If, for some reason, a marriage was ended, the children _always_ went to the husband, or, perhaps if a royal dispensation were handed down, to the mother’s family. But she wasn’t allowed more than visiting rights if anything at all. That very fact, that core tenant of what her world held, was what had allowed her to leave her son behind without fighting tooth and nail - no matter the actual folly of doing so. 

It was something she regretted every waking breath, even if it wasn’t in the forefront of her thoughts.

All of this, of course, set back any hopes she had for her milk supply to stop coming in. They were always hungry, always. In one little girl’s case, she would turn her nose up at most any other breast offered if Isabel was around, which was alright, she was one of the somewhat ‘orphaned’ babies. Wispy black hair was a ridge on her soft skull, and she would look at the world around her with eyes far more knowing than such a tiny new life should. Isabel made up songs for each babe, ones with their names, and about flowers, bees, or birds. They seemed to enjoy it almost as much as they liked the closeness she gladly provided. As for the little dark haired girl, her eyes threw back indigo lights, which would deepen and darken further as she would begin to doze off. Mora wasn’t particularly agreeable though, very grabby handed, and she grunted, snuffled, and made ‘snarf’ sounds as she suckled hard. Burping her was a lesson in dodging spit-up, because she was so grunty like an oinking little piglet, she swallowed plenty of air during feedings.

During all of that, Isabel learned to muck about with the strange stones Raelag’s sister had sent. Memory stones varied in size, colour, and clarity, their magic somewhat innate, but requiring skill to record. Some could be set up independently, not needing an observer to watch/experience a memory for the stone to take it in. Others needed a person to ‘push’ - for lack of a better description - a memory into it. Since there were babies with mothers who weren’t interested in that task, Isabel set about recording memories for each child, even the ones whose mothers were very involved. Perhaps when they were older, they would know they were loved and cared for even so far back. Isabel made it a point to sit with each baby once a week to record their milestones, and tell them she loved them. So what if it was only a sort of general love, rather than specific to each child? They still needed it, and that knowledge was more important for them than worrying about favourites.

Raelag had begun to stop by during her time spent with the nursery, his eyes focused on her alone. He hadn’t really struck her as interested in those kinds of activities, but if he was practically Erunia’s father, and the eldest of several siblings, then he surely would know some basics at least. And he did, he could be found heading off a bit of a squall with truly unhappy looking expressions on his face, matching the similar expression of whatever babe needed the occasional nappy changing. Other than that generally very brief contact with them, he didn’t appear interested in touching or holding the little ones. No, he seemed most interested in watching her with them, gaze on her face, her body, her movements. 

Moving to sit beside him, Mora had just begun a good feeding, she was pleased when Raelag not just made room, but tugged her to be close. Briefly he looked down at the girl she had named after her blueberry coloured eyes, with clinical examination, going so far as to touch the shock of coal black hair. Whatever he was thinking was strange to him, Isabel could tell that much, but if he didn’t wish to speak on it, that was alright, it was just nice to sit like that with him while she went through the often draining process of feeding yet another little one. 

His voice was low when he finally spoke, “Looks a little bit like us.”

Isabel squinted at the girl, “If she looks like anyone, it’s you. But only because of the ears, eyes, and that dark hair. Otherwise, she looks like most babies - a bundled up bean. It’ll be a few months before she starts to look more definitively like anyone specific.” Mora interrupted with a snuffling grunt, lip smacking as her mouth worked noisily at her meal. Bumping Raelag with her elbow, teasing, “She’s got that down too. Certain she’s not yours?”

Fervently, “ _Very_ certain. I’ve only lain with one woman since renouncing Kha-Beleth, and she’s not here. We also took precautions.” But his head was cocked, looking from her to the babe and back, as though he couldn’t decide what he felt or thought. Offering cautiously, “There are few women I would ever dare to risk a child with. And there is only one woman I would have no qualms fathering a child on, for her qualities would far outweigh anything unfortunate that my blood could contribute.”

Isabel didn’t know what to do when he said things like that. When he said things that, to him, were just plain facts, unshakable beliefs, ones that were directed at her. Most times she would touch whatever bit of him was available, but this time was different, her hands were full, and they were already pressed side to side. Leaning in closer, she kissed him, a soft one, on his lips, which was a motion that caused him to still - at least before he leaned in, pressing a second followup kiss when she moved away. It was one of those soft, sweet, delicate things, where lips clung for a moment, the flesh compressing only lightly, and on the pullback, the lips always seemed somewhat reluctant to let go of one another... To Isabel, that was the way for a proper kiss. (Well, one without tongues and open mouths.) And it was the kind of kiss she hadn’t had in a _very_ long time, because no one seemed to know how to kiss ‘right’. Nicolai, when he was courting her, had been hungry - then later punishing and starving once brought back. Kha-Beleth’s ‘kisses’ shouldn’t even be remotely thought on, especially not when she had Raelag right there, who was happy to receive and give proper kisses. Which was about the sum of her kissing experience, excluding a few from visiting males at the abbey, and they couldn’t kiss quite right _either_. Edgar could kiss right, Raelag could kiss right, that was good enough for Isabel.

His low, pleased hum was a lovely burr of noise, had Mora unlatching, and staring at them both, the girl’s expression eliciting a laugh from Isabel, and she tickled a cheek. “Oh that’s so silly, such a silly sound, is it Mora?” Singsong, Isabel went on about cats and their purrs, sometimes kissing Raelag to cause him to make that hum again, which was fairly close to the feline noise she was describing to Mora.

....

Checking Raelag’s stomach before bed, Isabel traced a healing ward over the taut flesh. Her magic was strong enough to bring back the (very) recently dead, and could patch man or beast up well enough to continue fighting. But it still took time for the healing to work its course in full. On a battlefield or during a fight, it saved lives, outside of those situations, it sped recovery and saved even more lives. Yet, in the end, the body still had to do much of its own work, and mustn’t be overtaxed during the recovery time afterwards. 

“It’s coming along nicely,” she declared after sending a bit of healing his way. “How’s your energy levels? Pain, discomfort? Cramping?”

“That bit that came out that got put back in sometimes feels like it’s wiggling around,” the Clanlord said, folding his arms behind his head, but the smile on his face was amused. “Do you think that’s bad?”

Clucking her tongue at him, Isabel gave his stomach a poke - a gentle one, “That’s what you get for rummaging about in your gut like you’re digging for a prize in a bag at a summer’s faire.”

“It’s not every day that a man gets to see what he’s made of so literally,” Raelag protested. “Very surreal.”

Rocking back on her heels on their bed, Isabel shifted so she could sit cross-legged, dragging one of the fat tomes from the library into her lap, “I can only imagine. If I was a bystander, I can’t vouch for my nerves. And I’m _still_ not over that, I may add. There’s something about seeing a friend so ill-used and hurt that, by comparison, not even all the horrors I’ve seen when healing others, can remotely match the wracking upset. What if you had died?”

The warmth of his hand landed atop her knee, squeezing, “You were there, and I knew I would be alright because of it. Nothing was clearly punctured or ruptured, or at least not by the time you got to it, there was no foul stink, so I knew it could be managed.” Confidently, “Besides, you bring back those in far worse shape than I was, so I knew that in your hands, I was safe.”

Her fingers clenched at the ends of the book. _Really_ now - did he have to be so...so...so as he was all the time? At this rate, she was going to wind up utterly spoiled having someone in her life that cared for her that much.

Shaking her head, “Why?” Confused, “What is it about me that makes you feel that way? I’m myself, no one else, just me. What is it you see that is so different than others, what is it that makes you trust me, causes you to go to utterly absurd lengths to save me with little promise for recompense, when there are so many easier, more rewarding, attainable women about, who would match you better? Ones who could easily feel for you and echo what you’re so willing to give a woman who, up until very recently, didn’t know _you_?”

He made a face, “I’ve known you since before you could speak. Granted, we didn’t interact much, I would sneak into the nursery to check on you, and you would make faces if you were awake. Sometimes you would soil your drawers, but what’s a bit of that between friends? I’ve even returned the favour, you had your hands in my guts, so I’d call that fair.”

Laughter found her briefly, and she swatted at his leg, “You’re terrible. Changing the subject. If you don’t know, then just say so.”

Suddenly his gaze went far away, “It’s not that.” For a moment she thought he wouldn’t say more, then a full body twitch moved through him. “My first memories were sitting on grass, under the shade of a tree, the light was green and gold, filtered down, and Mother was sitting beside me, reading some papers that I can still hear being shuffled. I stayed close to her shadow, always checking to see if she was there until I became too interested in what was around me. Squirrels came down, chattering, back and forth, carrying nuts, the birds were calling, singing out, and the wind rustled the branches, shaking the leaves.” Isabel leaned forward, listening intently, not sure what it was about, but it was important to him. “Other memories, similar setting, one of the fountains was there, more like a small pond, and it held fish which would come up and nibble my fingers if I splashed my hand about. As I got older, having Mother right there became less important, and I would go farther on my own, discovering the world around me.” Wistfully, the longing etched deep in every line of his face, “It was beautiful, Isabel. It was beautiful even after Sylanna forsook us. Abandoned us, and let us be abused by our kin, our neighbours. The world burned, everything that was beautiful, burned.” Raelag’s lids fluttered closed, lashes clumping, his voice going tight, and Isabel carefully set the book aside so she could stretch out beside him, tugging him in to cradle him. He took a few moments before continuing, “Assailed from every corner, accused of the most heinous of crimes - destroying our links to Sylanna, Sylanna who ignored us, who abandoned us to the rabid betrayal of our own kind, and didn’t even care that we were ravaged by Dwarves and Humans as well. Accused of burning Sylanna’s tree, of murdering the Sylvan Court...”

That was history Isabel knew, knew of the Empire’s invasion to the mountains, through the passes, and how the elves of Irollen defended their perceived borders by running roughshod over Tuidhana’s kingdom. Isabel could only imagine the sense of despairing betrayal they must have suffered. But Raelag _didn’t_ have to imagine it. He had lived it, and the wounds were still there, scarred, twisting, and painful knots.

“During a scouting foray to find a path free of Humans and Dwarves, I came across a group of Stag soldiers,” his sigh was one heaved of old confusion. “It had been a long time since I saw a human woman like that, earthy, voluptuous...and wielding a mace that just about knocked what brains I possessed from my head. Suddenly, the world almost made sense again. Deirdre was noble, she had clout, she was intelligent, she could be reasoned with. And I was young, naive, foolish and hopeful, thinking that perhaps our borders on that area could be saved from privation. I mean, surely the people of the Empire, of the Stag Duchy, could be reasoned with? They were men and women, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers too, just as we were...surely they didn’t _really_ want war? The world was burnt and ravaged, but it could heal, it could survive, and it was battered - but it was still beautiful.”

“And then, when she was arguing with her family, a Sylvan group descended on the Stag capitol, where we had stationed ourselves outside, upon invitation for parley,” the words became detached, worn, vacant. “Deirdre died in the blaze that took out so much, and the world, oh how hideous the world was, how _angry_ that my Sylvan cousins would come to do such things, to commit such heinous crimes. Nowhere and no one was safe, and we were blamed by the Angels for what happened in Stag, just as Irollen blamed us for all the world’s ills.” Isabel let him tuck his face into her neck, let him breathe it out, release what was there. “Our homes, our loves, our lives, our families, our land, even our Dragon, was taken from us and we were without succor. Deirdre bought us time to escape that night, her friend Jorgen guiding us, and her remaining family, her sister, Cate, and her brother, Korvan away. While Cate and Korvan were left in the hands of their people, Jorgen insisted on meeting with Mother...”

He shook his head, “And the world changed again. He was a Faceless, he and Mother discussed our people and his Dragon, and, as Mother’s heir, I was there. Angels breed slowly, Faceless even more so, and they were hated by all. But for the strength and safety Malassa would give us in exchange for worship, for gathering the secrets in shadows, the memories in all minds... We were willing to be hated.” Philosophically, “What was a little more hatred when we were reviled on all sides? It was a more than fair trade, and it gave us a chance for survival.” He huffed, awed, “And then I could _see_ , see as I never had before, and if I had thought the world beautiful, lovely, impossibly perfect and filled with wonder as a boy, Malassa’s mark gave it back to me a thousand times over. I could count the scales on a dragonfly’s wings on the blackest night. The songs of evening, midnight, and those hours before sunrise...were as the most heartachingly perfect symphony. For all my rage against others for what they had done to my world, people, and family, I felt peace again, swathed and swaddled in shadows.” 

Snorting, “Then we were attacked, unsurprisngly, again, even after we had finally driven them all off. Exile, true exile, or destruction. Mother stayed, not trusting their words to be true. And stubbornness, no one would force her to flee her land. The Faceless took us down and deep...and I forgot sunlight’s warmth on my face. Forgot loam beneath my feet, grass growing on the floor of my room... Forgot trees of green reaching for an azure sky, leaves such beautiful shades of emeralds that no mere stone could ever compare...” The longing was back again in full force. “Then I went above because I had to. I went above and everything that had brought me comfort and steadiness was as poison. The sun sought to burn my eyes straight through my skull, my flesh froze and exploded in heat in turns, for wind was cruelly frigid compared to Ygg-chall’s steady flows and stable temperatures, and the sun’s rays were vicious spells cast at bared flesh.” 

“I had no home. No home, for my world as I had ever known it, no longer existed. The Empire had claimed most of Tarlad for itself, harvesting trees, killing off the wildlife, putting _cows_ out there and growing _rye_ , renaming it so even the name of Tarlad is forgotten by one and all save perhaps a handful of people.” He growled, “Monuments that spat on us or painted us as selfish savages too stupid to think on our own - those were there by turns. Mother’s ashes were locked up in some Elrath worshipping church museum, testament to our folly and pride, under the guise of ‘never forgetting what Angelic pride can do to harm’. Hmph. My world didn’t exist, Isabel. And now, almost no one remembers it, perhaps only I remember it clearly other than Malsara and Malassa.” 

Isabel let him pull away, curious, and then he stroked her hair, his gaze skipping over her face, “You ran in the grass, rolled about in it, enjoying everything about it, your laughter was the song of birds and chatter of animals. Your hair is the red, fuzzy bark of the trees I took refuge in. Your eyes are the green of the leaves in all the trees. Your heartbeat and blood in your veins is the springs and brooks and streams that burbled to themselves in the mountains... And your skin,” thumb brushing her cheek, “is the warmth of sunset thrown off the snowcaps, blushing gold and cool. You’re the sun that doesn’t hurt my eyes, you’re the world that I lost repeatedly. You’re home, and even if I never get to return, just knowing it...you...exist, is enough, and worth defending with whatever I have left.”

It was the most words Isabel had heard Raelag string together at once, ever. Almost deluge of sentiment, his existence and confusion, his hopes, dreams, fears, and hurts - all rolled up and then put on perfect display with each word he chose. She could feel what it meant to him, and it was a weight that Isabel wasn’t certain she could carry, or that she was even worthy of bearing.

“Raelag,” Isabel managed to say his name, wrapping both her arms around him, tugging him in as close as possible, going so far as to wrap a leg around his, and drew his weight partially over her.

A sigh of contentment, “And I like being blinded by your smiles, it doesn’t hurt.”

Squeezing him, “There’s other people out there in the world who are good, Raelag. Better ones than I. Ones who would love you right, welcome you home properly, and give you what you deserve.”

“Possibly,” he conceded, his breath puffing over her neck, the motion of his lips stroking kisses there. “But I don’t know them, and even if I did, the thought of reaching out to them is unsettling and I don’t like it. So it wouldn’t happen. It doesn’t matter if it’s right or not, it just is. You gave me home, safe harbour and purpose when even Malassa’s voice had grown silent, when I was finally, truly giving up in Sheogh. You appeared and -” He chuckled, the deep seated amusement washing through her and warming her, “I spoke to you centuries before your birth.”

“What?” Squinting at his crown, Isabel tugged his ear gently to make him look at her. “How could you have spoken to me before I was even born?”

“The test to become Malassa’s champion, her chosen leader, the unifying voice of the children she had adopted - I was so lost after that test. After I listened to the whispers,” his lower jaw firmed as he remembered, the long blade of his nose cutting the air as he sniffed. “The first was from my past, an angry and rather stupid promise. The second was from the present - well, it was almost present at the time, taking place a few years prior. And the third...the third, I was asking you to trust me, to come with me, to leave. I didn’t know who that future self was pleading with, or why, and told the Faceless arbiter that I was lost and confused.”

Isabel stroked one of his eyebrows, tracing the sharp wing of it, “But Raelag, it’s only when we’re lost that we can be found. Otherwise it’s just sitting right there, not doing anything. To be lost, to be found, is better.”

His eyes flashed, and Isabel found his mouth on hers, lips prying with gentle insistence. Gladly she opened her mouth to him, craving connection in that moment, to fulfill her own need to be close. Raelag’s weight was there, his chest rising and falling, filling her exhales and inhales in a delicate give and take. The slickness of his tongue sliding and dancing around hers, his fingers curling along her jaw, to her temple and ear, tangling in her hair. It felt right in a way little had felt right in forever. 

When he stopped, Isabel leaned up to give him a kiss of her own, her embrace tightening. A young woman’s silly words almost came free, held off by dint of will. What Raelag had shared with her, had been sharing with her, was his open vulnerabilities, and it would be easy to hurt him if she rushed when she wasn’t ready for more. But this? This she was ready for, and wanted to share, this touch, this kiss, this contact. It’s what she could do. What was more, it was what Isabel _wanted_ to do, for herself, for him, and no other reasons than that - they were enough.

....

With the most recent shipment of supplies, Erunia appeared. At first Isabel couldn’t reconcile the stern voiced woman, calling out firm orders, all without a single spec of that playful verve Isabel had witnessed during the two way scryings. Not until Erunia had broken away from giving orders to see her in one of the tucked away alcoves in the gate yard.

“I forgot how dismal these places could be,” she looked around at Turok-tai and made a rather unhappy face, almost comical in the childishness of it. “I like purple and black as much as the next girl, but this is a little too much!” Erunia’s pronouncement was followed up by a complex set of words and gestures, the large crystals - some of which floated, suspended by magic, while others were set into rock outcroppings - changed from the chilly sear white lavender they typically shed, to blue, pink, teal, and a rosey gold. It was a rippling change, each stone creating a gradient of each colour, but the way they were positioned and ordered, made for a false sunset rainbow. “There! Much better. Brother can be very boring sometimes, no imagination in that man.”

Isabel defended him lightly, since he wasn’t there to stick up for himself presently, “I think he’s mostly just accepting of the way things are in their natural states, letting them exist however they were created. His appreciation is for the world itself, rather than the people and what changes they enforce.”

Twinkling eyes, stuck in that shade between cornflower blue and cactus blossom lavenders, inspected her, “Brother’s not much of a people person, he can’t help it. Most of us are a bit of a bother to him, too confusing.”

“That’s how he describes it,” Isabel agreed, but she was still withholding judgement on that description. There was far too much variance for her to pigeonhole him the way he had done to himself. “Stubborn, a little mad, a touch too daring, and a touch too cautious. _Very_ proud of what he’s capable of and accomplished.”

“Mother used to call him her clever crow,” Erunia slipped an arm through Isabel’s, watching as the wagons were being directed to their destinations. “It used to be hawk, but then Malassa took us in, and some of us changed more obviously. From dark, dirty brown, the colour of mulch and compost, to shiny black. It suits him better at least.” A white locke was tugged, “But I miss having hair like a shiny gold coin.”

“Glamour it,” Isabel suggested. “Raelag glamours away scars, no reason to not glamour your hair a colour you like better, Erunia.”

“Scars? But his scars are handsome,” she seemed genuinely baffled. 

She shrugged, smiling, not sure if Erunia knew of the welts and weals that were evidence of his time as a Demon Lord. “He’s definitely a far more vain man than most I’ve ever known.” Snorting, “I suppose that’s what happens when almost all one’s company growing up is monks, nuns, and retired soldiers. Not much room for vanity in those settings.”

Overall, Erunia, in person, was a whirlwind to deal with. Isabel liked her, but she was _very_ draining. At least compared to Raelag’s easygoing and laid back nature. How had the poor man managed to raise someone so wildly chatty and energetic when he could only deal with most people in measured, planned doses? Likely Erunia had just talked to him to death while he stoically would go over whatever letters or numbers she was supposed to be learning. Maybe watched her gallup around with blocks or stuffed animals and let her clamber over him like a rock, and firmly kept his mouth closed. As an adult, Erunia was almost too much for Isabel. By the Light - she was _exhausting_!

In hopes of curbing - or at least diverting - some of Erunia’s attention, she guided Raelag’s sister to the nursery. Since Erunia seemed a bit baby crazy, it was probably the wisest course of action and a good place to direct her. Besides, Isabel’s breasts were aching again, and the little ones could probably use a good cuddle and song to go with their meals.

A large wooden trough, big enough for a few babies to sit in wobbly, supported by a hand, was filled for the bath that the little ones got every few days. Someone had carved floating toys of wood or bone, that bobbed along, keeping whichever baby was being washed properly distracted. Which worked well on Erunia too, funnily enough. Lots of little splashes, silly nonsense talk, and brief hoistings up for flubby kisses entertained the nursery’s charges, and Erunia alike. 

“There’s memory stones all over the place,” she commented, a long finger tickling a small roll at an equally small ankle. 

Scooping water over a downy head, Isabel hummed, “Because they’re too little to remember this right now, I thought that having proof later on would make them feel more secure. A voice reading them a bedtime story, the memory of being held just right, and being told they’re loved.” Ducking enough to blow air over a wiggly ear, eliciting a chuffy squeaky giggle, “Not all of them have mothers who’re able to give them that. I can, and will do so gladly.”

Head cocking, Erunia smiled, it was one of those really bright, wide ones, not the gay and sparkling kind, but the sort where Isabel saw the resemblance between she and Raelag. “I’ll have the covens work on making more of them, maybe I’ll enact the same sort of policy for my clan’s nurseries. A strong, nurturing background, produces the most reliable people to replenish those we lose. That’s how I will have to sell it to them, mostly I just think it’s beautiful you thought of that.” 

Later, oh so much later, Isabel was in the infirmary, checking over whomever was in need. Never before had she ever considered the particular need of beastmen compared to the kinds of soldiers she was accustomed to. Frequent issues that were closer to animal rather than human or elven - hoof rot, splits, thrown shoes - along with finicky bodies that didn’t respond well to the sorts of treatments customarily given to most people, and Isabel had had to apply what she knew of animal husbandry. The minotaurs had been discomforted by her at first, for she treated them exactly the same as she did the Dark Elves, but they gradually warmed up to the notion of being treated like peers. For her, it was just easiest to do that, they thought, they reasoned, they spoke. It was the lizard mounts and hydras that were _really_ odd for her to work with, as their natures dictated an urge to lash out when injured, and they weren’t exactly sentient. That was to say nothing of a visit by a black dragon with a request to inspect and repair an egg that was viable but damaged. (So far the dragon pup inside it was growing she had been told, hopefully it would hatch healthy.) The particular experience had been informative and strange.

That work provided hours of entertainment for her while Raelag and Erunia had some time together. Isabel did hope she had worn out the woman enough so that Raelag wouldn’t be too hard pressed or miserable. Perhaps he would enjoy a nice backrub, especially since she enjoyed the ones he gave her, or the devilish things he did to her feet or hands after long hours tending others.

Giving a last check on the supply chests in the infirmary, Isabel meandered back to the nursery to look in on the babies, make sure everyone had what they needed. It was on that path that Raelag found her, arm coming around her waist as soon as she identified him. Imperceptible tension bled out, draining away at the contact, his relief something just below the surface.

Tugging him to a halt, “Are you quite alright, Raelag?”

“Mmn, just a bit of scolding,” hitching a shrug, his other arm quickly wrapping around her so he could hug her close, face pressing into her cheek. Mumbling, “It wasn’t unexpected, and it was far less than I thought I’d be receiving. _Apparently_ a kind benefactress wore my sister out before she was unleashed upon me.”

“Well,” drawing the word out, “if there was such a nice person about, they probably would quite enjoy a kiss for such a sweet thing. _If_ the beneficiary were so inclined, of course.”

Raelag’s chuckle was low as they stood in the open paths of Turok-tai, the sound shooting straight through her ear and into her mind, down to her belly. “But of course, wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

Content with the brief, tasting kiss, Isabel still had promised herself to check the nursery. Raelag gamely followed, and kept an arm around her while she was feeding Mora who had decided to get fussy as soon as her crib was touched, her face scrunching up this way and that, nose wiggling as she caught Isabel’s scent. Tucked back in, another was taken, any of them that woke up or looked like they were about to, were easily scooped up by herself, or another of the women watching. A few more adult sized cots were about the nursery to accommodate naps for the caregivers who remained for longer periods, so there was always plenty of others on hand. Last little nosey tapped, bottom cleaned, blanket tucked just so, she was finally satisfied. 

Long fingers brushed her palm before they twined with hers, Raelag asked, clearly curious, “Do you really like all this?”

Head tilted, their hands swaying very gently with their steps, “Animals I’ve always liked - taking care of them, helping them, tending them, playing... I didn’t know anything about babies, or children until I had Sareth and had to learn about it by fumbling, or what a few of the demons told me.”

Beside her, Raelag grunted, “Your childhood was very lonely, even I thought you should have had more to play with, other little ones close to your age, instead of only animals and old people who didn’t want to run back and forth or play pretend.”

Looking at him askance, “I never thought my childhood very lonely. There were the animals, there was Cedric, Edgar, Hanvard, and Sister Syble. The abbey wasn’t empty and I wasn’t ignored, there were always people to talk to...”

“Children should run together, play games that have only the rules they come up with right then and there, balls of rag stuffed hide to kick about,” Raelag’s words were firm. “Knowing how to deal with adults doesn’t really prepare children for actual adulthood. Because when you grow up, you’re quickly confronted with the fact that those people you thought were smart, full of common sense, and decency, are really just as dumb as they were when they were just entering puberty. Children need peers, not just adults. Even I know that, I have seen it.” His jaw set in that funny way of his, “I should have insisted on it more.”

Beneath their feet, the strange magics that bent light, shadow, and matter, had been blended into the very steps. Raelag was good at activating it in reliable fashions, and Isabel was gradually picking up the knack. The magic carried them faster through Turok-tai’s soaring spires, open halls, crumbled archways, and mosaiced, carved walls. As they approached their quarters at dizzying speeds, Isabel thought over Raelag’s insistence that her childhood should have been ‘better’. Door opening and then closing behind them, they both puttered about in their usual meander. For her, the light levels were close to ‘normal’ ranges, but still low enough to not do Raelag’s eyes undue harm. His reasoning had been that Turok-tai was suited to the eyes of Dark Elves, she should at least have somewhere where the light levels were easier on hers.

Twisting to look at him while he tied back his hair for the night, “Raelag, really, truly, my childhood was far happier than it could have been. With most of my immediate family dying from White Fever, then Father dying after that... The abbey was my home, Raelag. The farmhands, the workers, my teachers - those were my new family. Even though the sisters and brothers would get after me for getting dirty, or being too loud, or running around like a little heathen, I still felt loved and joyful. Whoever you were back then was part of it. Truly, you were a fair bit of what made that possible. I wasn’t ever really lonely, at least, not until Edgar was called away...”

Raelag’s eyes were hooded, “If that’s how you feel...”

“It is,” Isabel said with absolute conviction. Going further, “And I also like giving what I have to give to those who need it. If it’s a baby, a minotaur whose bullring got ripped out, a hydra that is missing huge chunks of one neck, or a dragon who is worried about a damaged egg or a loose scale, so be it. Those are things I can do, Raelag. I don’t have to be the best at it, I only have to be there, and willing to give of myself. They don’t care who I was, what my name supposedly means, and all its attendant weight. They’re only interested in my willingness to share with them.” 

He looked away, “Love grows with the sharing.”

A shivery chill went down Isabel’s spine, the words familiar, ones she had said before. She had forgotten them, not their sentiment, just that she had said it. With a smile, she thought of the little goat whose tail would spin-flippy in its rapid wag when she would play with it, telling it about her lessons and confiding about a certain farmhand who smelled nice. Another kiss was had before they settled in, and he didn’t go for her breasts until she gave him permission to, as usual. Maybe she didn’t need him to do it, but it was a little ritual between them that felt lovely and caring in an unconventional - compared to the norms of propriety put upon her above - way, and as long as it felt that way, she would be happy to continue it.

Musing aloud, drawing meaningless shapes over Raelag’s broad, bare back, “I wonder if goats would do well down here?”

....

Waking before Raelag, Isabel took a moment, listening to his breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall under the arm she had draped over him. Bony knobs of vertebrae pressed against the pale skin, framed by his ebony black hair near where she had her face buried in the back of his neck. They shared a pillow they were so tight and close, and Isabel curled around him more, stroking his chest then slipping down to touch the raked scars from the scorpiocre’s attack. It may have been weeks, but she could still see him on the ground, pain twisting his features as he held his spilling guts in. She hadn’t seen him go down, hadn’t seen which beast had felled him, but she hoped it was one of the ones she killed. 

Isabel hadn’t had time to be afraid, to be worried, to be horrified. There had only been the moment, the pounding of her blood in her veins as she stepped forward to stand sentinel over him. To get between him and death - in those moments part of her believed if she could just kill enough of the nest, could beat them back, that it would be beating death away from him. And she had refused to falter.

To think that the skin beneath her fingers had been so torn asunder, that his life was measured in heartbeats and breath that was slipping away in spurts... Now his life was intact, no threat to it beyond the day to day not-so-trivial-but-not-constant action of further securing the bastion’s area. Isabel had done the saving for once. Not that it felt like she had done anything, there really hadn’t been any thought there at all other than a refusal to have another person she cared about die in her arms from a senseless fight.

Tucking her nose into the side of Raelag’s neck, her lashes fluttered closed as she continued tracing the marks on his abdomen, the firm lines of muscles, down to the indent of his navel. Lips resting between the bumps of spinal column, Isabel just breathed in his strange scent. It had come to represent comfort, though she couldn’t identify all of what comprised it. Mostly he smelled like ‘man’ to put it simply. Lizard musk was in there from his frequent dealings with the reptiles, a bit of flowers or herbs that only grew down in Ygg-chall... Sweat, salt, the soap he used that was heavy in comfrey and honey and a few of the exotic spices of the Silver Cities like cinnamon and allspice. 

The slow stroking continued, just checking, feeling, being certain, while Raelag’s breathing was in that hang mouthed style where it was audible but was nowhere near a snore. Lip smacking and a shifting grunt, the Dark Elf squirmed his back into her, adjusting and settling down quickly. Isabel waited patiently for his breathing to level out completely once more before resuming the gentle touch. Asleep, what little ‘threat’ Raelag could pose, was absent compared to his waking self (not that she _thought_ he would ever use his position, especially with how staunch he was in refusing her statements that she owed him). Awake, he said things that made Isabel vacillate between the need to leap on him, wild and needy; run away, afraid of how his words made her feel; or stare at him in confusion, only to deny those feelings were even possible for a man to have for a woman. Asleep, she could explore without his beautiful eyes focused on her so intently, as though she were the only thing he wanted to see. It was distracting, disconcerting, even though she liked it, it was just a little too much at once.

Soft spidersilk met her hand, the same temperature as his skin, it slipped and slithered with the slightest motion, sensual in of itself. But it was tugging oddly, no, not oddly, just... Just not in a way Isabel was familiar with anymore. Further she went until Isabel’s questing hand found the reason for the tugging and strain at the fabric of the trews Raelag slept in. Such a funny thing to be worried over, a man’s prick shouldn’t be something she was ever afraid of. Never had it occurred to her before, not until Nicolai was resurrected, that she should fear what lay between a man’s thighs. Honestly, Isabel was sick of that too - being intimidated by something that she had learned originally was for pleasure and sharing. 

It flexed and bobbed against her palm, reminding Isabel of how positively silly a man looked erect. Which was so very contrary since she had thought Edgar’s - then Nicolai’s (for awhile at least) - were absolutely beautiful. A sleepy grumble, and Raelag’s hand went into his trousers, where there happened to be some adjusting going on, but Isabel just continued walking her fingers over the outside or caressing him through the material. When he pulled his own hand out and settled once more, Isabel replaced his with her own. Velvety soft and smooth flesh felt warm, hot even, maybe a little moist from the heat of sleep, was malleable and shifted over his straining hard shaft. Massaging that length, exploring the shifting skin, tugging it first over the bulbous head and then down, fingertips trailing here and there, and Raelag’s breathing hitched into a humming, low moan. 

Drugged, drowsy looking eyes fixated on her when Raelag rolled over eventually, and Isabel pressed a reassuring kiss to his chin, then his neck, while one of his arms sluggishly wrapped around her waist, “Is-isa-bel?”

Pausing, she leaned up to kiss him better, and was immediately greeted by his willing mouth. Isabel could laugh at how trusting he was, she really could, and just how sweet that was. But she wouldn’t, because while it reminded her of what she had lost, it also reminded her of how good it was to feel that way. A man who didn’t trust many, and there he was, trusting her so very openly once more. No matter what he said, she knew that she owed him more than what she had been giving him. Besides, Isabel didn’t want to let Kha-Beleth, Nicolai (and by extension, Markal and the backstabbing nobles of the Empire), take anything else from her. No, she wanted a normal, healthy life. The kind she could have had, should have had, by running off with Edgar. Now she had to figure out how to reclaim what was lost, or at least discover something else to fill that vacant place. Neither she, nor Raelag for that matter, deserved to be in a sexless union, not when they both had needs and wants and feelings.

Laying kisses in a careful, searching manner, Isabel made sure to rub her cheek over Raelag’s skin, taking her time with each press, testing the texture and muscle first with her lips, or a hand, then licking. Moisture was left behind, and underneath her, Raelag was shifting restlessly, a hand touching her shoulder, her back, her fingers, while his other was buried in his own hair, gripping as he moaned. How long she spent fondling and caressing, tasting, and looking before she tugged his trews down, it didn’t really matter. It was long enough for her to become comfortable with him, no different than when she would wash his back or give him a massage and vice versa. Playfully, Isabel slid her tongue over the ridged crown of his cock, and she thought - for a moment - his eyes may roll back in his head. All too soon there came a choked warning, Raelag’s back arching and his hips pressing down tight to the bed, and Isabel pulled back enough so she wouldn’t get a mouth, or face, full of his release, easing him through it while he shuddered and shook.

It wasn’t exactly _romantic_ , but Raelag’s twitching and flailing limbs as he tried to make them cooperate so he could embrace her, was certainly... Unvarnished. 

There was a bit of grunting and twisting about on Raelag’s part, but eventually Isabel was situated on her side with his face close to hers with his arms around her. “To what do I owe such a lovely awakening, and may I reciprocate now that I’ve stopped flopping about like a landed fish?”

Thinking it over, Isabel moved to kiss his chin, but he intercepted for a shared one, which made both of them hum and then, once they parted, sigh. “I wanted to do it, but beyond that, I don’t think I can go any farther today.”

She was relieved when he nodded, “Mmn, can I keep holding you for a bit?”

Isabel ‘kicked’ his ankle, very, very lightly, teasing, “We’re quite beyond the point where permission is needed there, Raelag.”

Another kiss, brief, “I love you, Isabel,” his look too understanding, too much good in one go, and those almost never uttered words from him (why would he need to say them, when he had proven it time and again?) left her burrowing into his arms, and tucking her face into his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

The Rite of True Nature needed to be undertaken. Raelag knew it, and he knew the longer he waited, the greater the pain would be for Isabel when it was finally done. He had _intended_ on doing it sooner, but with the rather embarrassing instance with his guts having been spilled every which way like confetti, that had been a delay. Then Erunia had shown up for a visit, and that didn’t leave Raelag much energy to set aside for the Rite. He loved his little sister, yet she was particularly adept at leaving him worn down to nothing but frayed nerves and ready to find a hole to climb into then pull in after himself. Isabel was a blessing in directing Erunia’s attention at things that needed doing, or plumbing her for information, or even swapping magical knowledge, which helped him cope immensely. 

One of the main benefits of Erunia’s presence though, was her skill in crafting memory stones, the most powerful of which she had presented him with. Their purpose was to form a particular type of library, one which was to hold the memories of someone who had been there for the Dark Elves’ dawning... One who could remember it. His issue with it, was just how personal those memories were. But there were things that must be recorded, particularly his knowledge of Irollen’s magic that had been - mostly - wiped from the Dark Elves by Malassa. Since he was one of the first, he had been changed differently. _His_ memories hadn’t been edited, cut and tailored, the intimate, magical, and cultural knowledge of being a Sylvan remained fully intact. Thralsen, his original holding city, had been the first to ‘recover’ the ability to make first aid tents, to wield earth magics that allowed regeneration, to grow trees for vital lumber...

That knowledge hadn’t been anything _recovered_ at all. It had just taken time for him to get his head out of the bottom of a barrel or pipe, and actually _teach_ anyone how to do it. Erunia’s stones would record all of that so he wouldn’t have to reteach others, or interact with people he had no desire to. Memory stones were better than books and scrolls - except books and scrolls could be easily replicated, copied. No two memory stones were identical, even if made by the same person, of the same memory. Yet memory stones didn’t need literacy, language was not important, the knowledge would simply deposit itself into the user’s mind. At least, depending upon what kind of memory key was put in place. Others would cast projected illusions. The stones hadn’t ever been an area of interest for him - elements, all of them, Light, Dark, Earth, Water, Fire, Wind - had. 

Another benefit of Erunia’s presence, was her ability to get Isabel into more regular clothes. Granted, like himself, Isabel wore far more than was the norm for those of Ygg-chall these days, but an old nightblade uniform, redyed and -tooled, suited her. And the two of them raiding the supplies - chiefly the heavy silk tents he had stockpiled prior to the invasion of Sheogh - had yielded a rather pleasant wardrobe. Isabel still stole his pants sometimes, usually when cleaning their quarters, and generally without a shirt on, just her breastbind. While the stark black of them didn’t do her sun warmed, peach skin any favours, they sat low, and would show off the dimples in the small of her back. As for the tent based wardrobe, it was a hybrid of surfacer fashion and Ygg-chall necessity. Too much covered, and Isabel wouldn’t be comfortable, which was impractical. Not enough easy access to her bosom for babes, and again, not practical for the tasks she had taken for herself. Raelag always knew what her day would hold by which clothes she grabbed. Soft pants that were cut high on the leg - just above the ankle - were always paired with a shirt that wrapped around itself, held closed by a series of ties on one side, with short sleeves. That outfit always meant a day spent almost entirely with the infirmary and the nursery. Her old, beaten and worn trousers, which were patched well and stained with old blood, and a tunic, her forearms wrapped? Gardening or dealing with the lizard mounts. Nightblade dragonleather pants, the fitted vest, and a wrapped shirt, her forearms and biceps supported? That certainly wasn’t for patrols, but for sparring. Sometimes Raelag would hie off with Isabel’s laundry, particularly the newer items, which were bland in their colouring, frequently undyed because of the speed in which he had been stockpiling the tents they were made from, leaving them a mottled grey, and he would dye them himself. Pigments would be brushed on in waves, or he would dunk the entire piece, and each time he had fixed up one of her pieces of clothes, he would gain a smile and a kiss. 

...Not that he wasn’t getting plenty of those, it was just nice to have one for having done something so small for her.

But, as for memory stones, Raelag had to force himself to do it. He hated every moment of sorting through his memories, organizing them into some semblance of order, and then pushing the knowledge through. If it had just been spells, language, or other, simple dry material, he could just create a memory of making or doing or saying some bit, then impress the stones with the ‘fresh’ memory. Instead, he was having to provide unvarnished, ugly memories, ones that didn’t spare him, ones that made him look a fool, an idiot, a madman. Yet this was their history, and it was filled with terror and rage, an absolute soul crushing hopelessness. Or it had been that way for him, those times had been devoid of all hope for a future. He had hated life, hated the weight of leading, and despised himself, so full of loathing a man should die of it. No wonder Kha-Beleth had found in him fertile ground for suborning him. What did it matter that it took centuries before he finally cracked and was dragged down? It had still happened. 

Raelag put all of that in, including the point where he had ceased to be a monarch worthy of being followed, when he had begun to twist the Soulscar the same way Sylsai had done. When Raelag had withdrawn from overseeing the Shadowbrand, Nightshard, and the myriad of smaller, splinter clans, like Erunia’s Starshot, he included that. How he had withdrawn from actively leading, some part of him trying to contain the spread of Sheogh’s taint. He let the other clans remain fully true to Malassa. Besides, it was she who had sent him dreams, nightmares, visions, about how Kha-Beleth had to be understood. The Soulscar had been tainted since the first time he had been tempted by Kha-Beleth, and then by Sylsai actually selling the clan to the Demon Sovereign. Better then to use that taint, to deepen it, but keep it from spreading like poison to the other clans. 

He only stopped when the memories of the Dark Elves seemed to ‘begin’. 

The stones were ordered, labeled, and placed in their holding box. Another set was picked up, ones that would contain instructions on magic, basic skills, culture, and historical items. What Tarlad was like. How the trees were made small and compact, able to grow and fruit quickly. Every spec of Sylvan magical and combat knowledge that Raelag possessed, was pressed into the stones. Methods of defense, mechanical, how the best unicorns were bred, what flower to blend with what vegetable to form a hybrid. He only had foggy memories from lessons on some things, but they at least provided starting points. All of that was encapsulated.

And after each session was done, Raelag would find himself sobbing in Isabel’s lap, or laying there, half in shock from the remembered horrors. She would just hold him, let him be weak and broken. No one had ever done that for him before. Mother would hold him when he woke up from bad nightmares as a boy, and he could seek safety there, but little boys grew up. Yet Isabel let him fall all to pieces, without judgement, without telling him it would be all alright, but she would stroke his cheek, hum to him. Sometimes she would curl over him, protective, shielding him from the horrors he could never escape because they were _in his head_ and _nothing_ could pry them out. It was motions he saw her do for the babies, and, as a grown man, maybe he should feel shame, but he didn’t. He couldn’t, not when her holding him just so and rocking a little as she supported him, let him release the anguish he had to stir up for the sake of his people and his duty to them. For even though Raelag had no intention of ruling them ever again, he still owed them their history, their birthright, and to properly record it for them. Isabel was, in those moments, all that kept him struggling back from the brink.

Her green eyes would view him without judgement, only kindness and compassion - sometimes a little worry. Others, a bit of guilt. Once or twice, anger, anger which was directed at the requirement he work the memory stones, not at him personally. Or if it was at him personally, it was over the fact that he put himself through that. Isabel would treat him with so much tenderness after those bouts, that it made Raelag want to weep for simple relief that someone cared like that. The times he thought he would fall to pieces for different reasons, he would wind up choking on laughter, because she would pepper his face with kisses, or blow air in his neck, which was probably the least dignified thing to have ever happened to him in his long life. Somehow they would often wind up rolling about, tickling or blowing air, until Raelag would be weak from snorting giggles that made him feel like a silly child one moment, then just so utterly relieved the next. 

All of that, all of it, was draining, and delayed the Rite of True Nature.

Laying with his head on the small of her back, Raelag pressed a kiss to a scar, it looked to be a bit of buckshot from a gremlin’s plug gun, and it had left spattered pink marks behind. “We should do the Rite soon.”

Isabel glanced over her shoulder at him, a page whispering to itself as she turned it, “I thought you wished to wait until I was...more healed?”

“Yes, and no,” walking his fingers over the scars, fascinated by their textures and different colours. “If we wait too long, it will be that much harder on you. You have a routine now, a place, something ordered for your mind to focus on. That makes it easier.”

She frowned, rolling onto her side on the garden’s moss covered floor, and Raelag propped himself up so the weight of his head wouldn’t press too heavily on her hip. “You wanted to do it right away at Talonguard.”

“There were many of us present, and it was an emergency,” he shrugged. “This time, it would be best to not put you in a trance, since having your own magic help direct will make it more successful. At Talonguard, there was myself, Zehir, Findan -” mumbling, “- though his magic was almost as weak as Godric’s, but what can you do? Two very powerful mages and two subpar ones is better than what I had to go through.”

Cocking her head, Isabel nodded her acceptance, “Then when should we do it?”

“After Erunia’s gone I’ll need a day of...” Nobody bouncing everywhere, all over him, pestering him with a thousand questions. “A day of introspection to gain my focus and energy,” Raelag chose the more politic description, “and then we can undertake it.”

One of her brows arched at him. “Why not have her help? Surely her aid could make certain of everything.”

Raelag twitched, burying his face in one of Isabel’s muscular thighs, grumbling, “She wears me out. I don’t think I’d be able to maintain the necessary concentration. Malassa’s shadow, I love her, but she can be a pest.”

Laughter, low and throaty, directed at his - to her no doubt - theatrically pathetic plight, “That’s what siblings are supposed to do. And you’re not the only one. Where does she get all that energy? Like trying to herd a gaggle of cats and toddlers in one breath!” Fingers were in his hair, combing through, and Raelag rubbed his face into the soft manticoresilk of her sunny saffron trews while she mused aloud, “If there ever was a person who needed to be barefoot and pregnant for awhile, it’s her. Curb her enthusiasm. Get her a man or five to do her bidding and get her chubby for a bit, that and some sleepless nights during teething or colicky times - should be enough to wear her out a little, don’t you think?”

Breathing deep, Raelag rolled away to rest his head in his hands, eyes hooded, “It’s been centuries, she’s avoided it for so long, I don’t know if she’ll ever do anything to continue Mother’s line.”

“Hmn - maybe she just didn’t want to raise one without knowing her big brother was safe?” Isabel scooted and sat up, leaning over him so his gaze was filled with her - it was a very nice view. “Someone she trusts to help watch her back when she’s distracted? Or maybe she was just very out of sorts, struggling to keep her mind in check. Maybe now she can think about it.”

Suddenly he felt guilty. His disappearance from her life could have been part of Erunia’s refusal to get comfortable enough to let her guard down. Possibly. Raelag wasn’t certain if that was true, but it was a very plausible reason. It really was something Erunia would do. Menan had been around a good long while, but their brother hadn’t ever really been more than a person to nod and smile as Erunia gossiped - how would Menan have ever made her feel secure? He wouldn’t have, he couldn’t have. Menan had been a good man, a loving man, a caring person, but at heart, he was still one of Sylanna’s through and through, and would happily have allowed the Sylvans the chance to betray the Dark Elves _yet again_ because he was so soft hearted and wanted to believe that their Sylvan cousins could care about them. With Raelag gone, that had left Erunia as the ‘strong’ one. So...yes, yes Raelag could see Erunia easily setting aside her desire for more family or a person to let her guard down with enough to start the next generation. 

Giving a noncommittal grunt of acceptance, “Mph...” 

“She’s just excited you’re ‘back’,” Isabel reiterated, this time pressing a kiss to his forehead - which was nice and probably would sway him to admit that Isabel was no doubt right. Which she probably was anyway. “It’s probably not often she gets to be a little sister and it’s comforting familiarity. You’re back, you’re alive, her mind is mostly settled, it’s good news and she’s celebrating...even if it’s a bit much exuberance for even me. Was I _ever_ that young?”

Lips twitching, “Chattered like a chipmunk, but you often turned it to the animals, rather than abusing the ears of veterans all the live long day.”

Tutting sympathetically, “Poor animals, having to put up with me.”

Thinking it over, eventually he came to the only correct conclusion. “Having Erunia’s help would be good. Her magic and mine blend well, always has. Between the two of us, we could easily knock Zehir’s arrogant smirk from his face. I’m perhaps almost as powerful as him alone, but she’s definitely more powerful than I. It’s just getting her to calm down long enough for me to teach her the spell and me enough...”

“Distance to regroup yourself,” Isabel finished for him, very understanding. 

“Hmmnhmmn,” he hummed.

“So, what shall we do for your day of rest? Or is it one you want me to leave you be as well?”

Raelag found a playful pout for her, “Don’t go. I want to paint you.”

“You mean my clothes, or me this time?”

Plucking at the material of her shirt, which was really barely anything other than a kerchief that tied well behind her neck and upper back, hanging down to cover the rest of her front, but not the back, “Why not both?” and got a smile at his ‘greediness’.

....

“Goats? She wants goats? What for?” Erunia was all crinkle faced, looking over the list Raelag had made of things to make life easier in Turok-tai.

“I imagine she likes them,” rolling his eyes. “The little kind, specialty of the Seven Cities region originally when it was just nomads, the Greyhound Duchy began crossbreeding them. Powerful little milk makers, good cheese, and they’re rather compact,” Raelag explained, making gestures as to the general size of the things. “At the abbey she was always in with them, or the cows, or the horses. But the goats would be easiest to bring down. Maybe some pigs, they eat anything they’re given, so scraps won’t go to waste.”

Even if scraps were going into the mulch and fungal bloom feed for the most part, expending some of it for pigs wouldn’t be any hardship. Raelag found himself missing pork, it was one of the few meats he heartily enjoyed prepared in any fashion at all. If he kept thinking about it though, he was going to want some bacon slathered in birch syrup...better then to stop.

His sister tucked a few stray snowy locks behind her stretched ears, “Goats are _terrible_ , Raelag.” He would counter her, but she continued, “They’re escape artists, smart enough to do whatever it takes to inconvenience you, and will eat anything they’re _not supposed to_...like your clothes. Or your hair. And ignore perfectly good silage. They smell, they’re stupid, and they’re _evil_ , oh so _eeeeevil_! I hate them! They’re only good for eating and kicking! Frying with an armageddon spell!”

Looking at her askance, “We only want a dozen. Preferably alive, Erunia. Not fried. A manageable herd, so some cheese can be made. Perhaps if the situation changes, we’ll expand on the herd, if not, then the dozen will remain and be carefully husbanded.”

“Next you’ll want chickens!” She paused, because apparently she saw his look, “Oh great, chickens too? Aren’t the spider or lizard eggs good enough for you?”

“They make Isabel cramp terribly,” Raelag fibbed. Actually he was just thinking about the little egg custard cakes Isabel could make, and the fact was, the lizard eggs just didn’t gel properly to make them. “Six hens and a cock, nothing too much...”

His sister grumbled and huffed and puffed. Raelag was amused by it, half expecting her to get up and stomp back and forth with her arms crossed, an exaggerated scowl on her face. Instead she just grumbled and kept giving him looks like she was expecting him to be swayed by her grouchy demeanor. He blamed how easily he had been swayed when she was little for that expectation, except he was a man grown now, and many, _many_ centuries older than back then. Besides, Isabel was better at it, or had been, usually fluttering lashes and all big eyes up, a lip wobbling in and out of a smile - oh that had made him cave too many times back then. Good thing she hadn’t picked that terrible habit back up, Raelag didn’t want to test himself against that expression.

When Erunia continued her pouting, Raelag pointed out cynically, “Several boxes filled with memories for a few wagons of supplies, a dozen goats, a few slaves, and some chickens seems a touch unfair to your big brother, Erunia.” More sharply, since Erunia made a face at him, “Mother and I raised you with better manners, Erunia. You’re four hundred and ninety-two years old, a princess of Tarlad, and one of Malassa’s last true seers - behave like it, instead of a thirty year old brat expecting to get her way for nothing.”

He didn’t bat an eyelash when she flinched, shamefaced. There were _many_ things he could take her to task for, and hadn’t. Neither would he likely light into her for them either. 

Mumbling, “Want some cows to go with those and the pigs you mentioned?”

“No cows, too resource intensive,” he shook his head, rising to pace around the map room he had taken as an office. “Goats are hardy, not resource intensive, not compared to what they produce. Same for chickens and even pigs.”

“Horses?” Erunia asked.

Raelag paused, looking at the old map, which was carved from crystal that magically had been altered to have the correct colours for its various representations. It was old enough that it still showed the Raven Duchy as the Griffin Duchy. It would require updating, and he resolved to send scouts to the surface directly overhead. He was curious as to how close they were to the Greyhound Duchy’s current borders. If close, then he would dare a topside farm, for, if push came to shove, Isabel could go up and tell any intruders to sod off. And if distant, then an orchard tucked inside a screening forest with a farm in the center of the orchard as he had done with Thralsen, would be undertaken.

Tracing the place he knew the abbey was, “It would be nice, but unfeasible. I’m more concerned with building this place into a proper colony, but I don’t want to commit us to trade unless it’s through you.” Finally he paced to her, squeezing her shoulder gently, “We just want a peaceful life, Erunia. To be left out of other people’s constant infighting and warfare. Self-sufficiency would aid us best.”

Erunia twisted around in her chair, arms coming around his waist and she pressed her face into his stomach. “I’m sorry, Raelag. Is it...are the memories that bad?”

Raelag lay a hand atop her head, and sighed. “We kept you as separate from it as we could, Erunia. Even Sylsai did. I can still see Mother’s terror as she realized she was sending us to what would be a future as nothing but exiles and criminals, and that she would never see us again. We did everything we could to keep you safe, even encouraging Salvin to take you away to safety. To some place far from the wars we would be fighting. To a place where you could be happy and your own person.” Lips thinning into a grimace she couldn’t see, “There is only one reason I’m working the memory stones for you Erunia. It’s because I love our people and I love you, and their birth, bloody, violent, and hated as it was, should not be forgotten. Knowing what we came from and what we became, the insurmountable odds we clawed our way over, refusing to be crushed by our betraying cousins and Dragon mother, can enable a better future if we work towards it, instead of working against one another. The memories are truly that bad, Erunia, and I can’t escape them. They’re not just some story in stone for others to remember and set down, they’re so much more, and I’ll never be free of the screams, stench, and all consuming weariness of those days.”

She squeezed him, and for a moment, she really was a little girl barely tall enough to reach his hip, making Raelag want to bundle her up and tuck her somewhere safe, where their world’s ugly realities couldn’t touch, “Rani should have at least one normal horse friend, it can’t be good for her to be on her lonesome all the time. And I’ll see if I can find a panther or three somewhere for you.”

Stroking her hair, he used his other hand to pat her back, “Do what you can, but don’t strain your resources. Be wary of any deals that look too good, or too improbable. It’s best for one and all if we remain undetected. Goods aren’t so important that it’s worth risking us being found. Now...we need to go over the spell for the Rite.”

....

Isabel’s gasping sobs tore at Raelag as she thrashed. She was fighting, trying so hard to not show how much it hurt. The woman he loved was a fighter, as admirable as that was, his gut twisted over the fact that she felt she must hide how much it hurt. Not because he delighted in seeing her pain, no, it was because she shouldn’t worry about what he, or anyone else for that matter, thought when she was struggling through the nerve jangling torment. Instead, she should just focus on letting it out however she needed.

He and Erunia’s magic blended into a whirlwind around them, Malassa’s element of shadows writhed a shrouding cocoon around their chosen place for the ritual, preventing any potential spies or anyone feeling the massive forces being gathered. No one would be sneaking in to kidnap Isabel _this_ time. Fire and ice raged, exploding on contact, while Erunia’s voice was a sonorous song inciting the elements. Crisp greenery, the musk of animals, and running water, sharp wind, and his voice a low guttural chant in the space just below hearing, the elements coming to him with greater ease than they did for Erunia. Spats of Light magic surged and fought inside the shell of Isabel’s body, tangling with pulsating putrescence that stank of the disgusting sulfur of Sheogh. It was every bad smell in Ashan amplified, a vein that snaked and fought their magic. If he had less care, he would rush and grab hold of it, tearing it from Isabel’s flesh, much the way Tieru had yanked off chunks of Sheogh’s taint from him. But he loved her and would not make this already traumatic experience that much worse. 

It writhed and fought, and Erunia held it still, pulling in any ‘slack’ the ephemeral serpent had, as Isabel rooted it out in herself, with him supplying the skill. Finally it was cornered, bunching up and twisting in on itself, formless and formed, the pure evilness of its being poisoning the very fabric of reality. Still, it fought, as Erunia began banishing it, while he moved to fill in all the gaps over Isabel, guarding himself, and, importantly, also guarding Erunia. Sheogh would not touch anyone he loved, Raelag wouldn’t allow it to, not ever again.

Finally, finally, contained, purged and destroyed, the mark of Kha-Beleth was expunged. 

Isabel was panting, exhausted. She was so worn out from screaming and fighting that she couldn’t even moan or cry. Yet her gaze was relieved - at least it was over, as badly as she hurt. 

Gently, so very gently, Raelag carefully picked her up, cradling her to him as though she were still a little girl, light enough to carry without much thought at all. Reassuring, “It’s over, lady. You’re free, Isabel.”

Fingers scrabbled, trying to clutch at the material of his coat, but she didn’t even have the strength for that. “O-ov-er?”

“Over,” he reiterated. “You did well, just rest, I’ll keep you safe, I swear it.”

....

When Erunia left, it was after Isabel was in better condition, or at least didn’t ‘need’ watching every moment. Raelag was certain Isabel needed it, but he was afraid he was hovering. After all, she _had_ snapped at him rather harshly (several times) during other times he had sought to cater to her needs when she was having a difficult time. Like while they were leaving Sheogh, there had been a great deal of snapping then. On the other hand, she had been miserable because of her breasts, and even worse, the loss of her son. Logically, he understood why she had turned down his offer to turn around and fetch the boy, but the man who loved Isabel like it was a disease or madness eating away at his mind - well, Raelag would have done it and damn the consequences if she had but asked it. There was also her growling when he had tried to massage her belly when she was cramping from her monthly, yet, she had indicated later on, that she believed he was making advances at a time when even if they had progressed to that point in their relationship, she probably would have hurt him (badly) if he had made any such attempts...

At Erunia’s suggestion - given as she embraced him, kissing his cheek before heading back through the gate, thus far the first and only person to enter and leave Turok-tai - Raelag took one of Isabel’s favourite babies to her while she was resting. Carrying the little thing had been strange, it had been a long time since he really held a baby, and his skin still crawled while doing so. Pins and needles poked and pricked and scraped along his spine as he held the dark haired thing securely. It was being quiet at least, and its nappy had been changed recently. He had been careful to remember to bring a few of those nappies with him however, as infants made terrible messes until they were able to talk or sort of dress themselves on their own and could be trained to go into a chamberpot. This little beast was certainly too young for that at this point, sadly. If it had been at that point, maybe he wouldn’t feel so unsettled by the spawn. Alternately, as he recalled from the limited selection of his siblings and Isabel, at that age, they got very squirmy to the point of actually being a danger to themselves during transport, so perhaps it was for the best that the thing wasn’t that age yet.

Attaining their quarters, having stopped to pick out the baby and a basket filled with fresh foods that had been made that day (hearty, dark rye bread, with dried fruit and nuts in it was a particularly nice treat, courtesy of some of the supplies Erunia had brought) and some hard boiled eggs to go with the fungi and flowers he always kept stocked in their quarters. He would be certain Isabel had eaten well, and was hoping that the basket’s contents, and the baby’s feeding on her, would make her hungry enough to actually eat, as the last few days, Isabel had turned her nose up at almost everything. She had only wanted water and sleep, and would look green if anything else was presented to her in spite of having managed a bit of broth the day before.

Isabel’s auburn hair was growing longer, brushing the very tops of her shoulders in some spots. When she had first pulled her helmet off after riding under the protective cover of his magical shields in Sheogh, her hair had been cut raggedly short. He wanted to run his fingers through it, had wanted to even out the rough edges as soon as he saw them, and when she had said she left Sareth behind, he understood why her hair had been so mangled. Raelag just hoped that there was enough of Isabel in the boy that it gave the child a fighting chance to become his own person rather than Kha-Beleth’s puppet. It would utterly destroy Isabel if her child truly became the monster Sareth’s sire wanted. 

For the moment, Isabel’s hair was spread over her cheek and shoulder as she dozed, one of the most beautiful visions Raelag had ever seen. The baby had the good taste to coo as soon as a few sniffs of the air were taken, probably agreeing that Isabel was its favourite person too. As soon as the infant made that noise however, Isabel’s eyes were flying open, her son’s name choked on for a moment until her gaze focused on him and then the babe.

“Raelag,” tone gently chiding, “who did you pilfer that baby from?”

Toeing off his shoes quickly, he awkwardly unhooked the basket from the crook of his arm onto the table, then sat beside Isabel, holding the baby out to her - who was also waving arms in Isabel’s direction, “The women at the nursery said this one was your favourite. It’s the one that looks like us.”

“Of course I can see it’s Mora,” the baby gathered up as she sat up slowly. “But why would you bring her here? You don’t like babies.”

“It’s not that I actively dislike them,” Raelag shrugged, stretching the truth somewhat he supposed. “I’m just not good with them. They’re fragile, smelly, loud, and don’t communicate very well. It can be difficult enough understanding people who speak properly, but a being that can’t do anything but squall? I’d never be able to know what it really wanted of me.”

Isabel sighed at him, bounce-rocking the dark-haired baby, while a grabby hand had gone straight for her breast, another curling over Isabel’s shoulder. “All the more reason it’s strange you brought one into space that is supposed to be your refuge.”

Raelag quickly insisted, “It’s also your refuge. It’s not just my space. It’s not just our space. It’s _your_ space, too. So things you need, that you like, that bring you comfort, should be present as well.”

That got a laugh, one he hadn’t been expecting. “So you bring the _grumpiest_ of the babies to cheer me up, while you suffer and make goofy faces like you just tasted your first lemon?” Her smile was warm and bright, leaving Raelag dazzled, “The things you put yourself through, Raelag, sometimes I worry for the quality of your sanity.”

Blinking dumbly, “Why is that one the grumpiest?”

Isabel began to lift the baby away from her where it had been trying to squirm and burrow into the loose neck of her shirt...and it let out a horrid, hideously angry shriek of pure, thwarted rage. Raelag clapped his hands over his ears, as the dratted woman cocked her head, brow arched in that way that all women seemed to have perfected at some point in their lives. It was a distinct ‘you see? I told you so’ sort of look with a sizeable dose of ‘you should have believed me’ for a bit of extra zest.

As soon as Isabel had the shirt open enough, the baby was set to her breast, and then began the noisy suckle, lip smacking and grunting that one had made the other times he saw her feed the thing, “Mora is very particular, Raelag. Quite choosy.”

Strained, “I can see that.” He fetched the basket of food, seeking distraction, “Do you think you could eat something?”

Raelag concentrated on reading the maps and descriptions of the area surrounding Turok-tai and its condition. Isabel had perked up enough to at least pace their apartment, the baby in her arms, and each time he glanced up, he saw the babe gazing up at her with absolute adoration. That was very definitely as it should be in that case. And Isabel’s overall expression reflected a great deal of love back at the baby, whom she was talking to about odd things, colours it was this time, earlier it had been about what an adventure going so far from the nursery was and that Raelag’s smell must have been nice and comforting for it to have behaved the whole trek... Since the baby couldn’t converse or respond, Raelag couldn’t understand why Isabel was talking to it. It’s not like it was an animal that let its acceptance and preferences or needs be known. Then again, Isabel had always talked to any living object available, be it beast or person, so he shrugged philosophically, surmising this was more of the same. Except, really, why must her standards for things to talk to be so low?

Hopefully the goats would arrive soon and Isabel could focus on more sentient creatures. 

Later, when Raelag was ready for sleep, he found the bed rather occupied. Isabel was on the outside, the creature was nestled in the center. The two of them were somehow hogging the entire surface though, and he couldn’t figure out how to clamber in without being forced against the wall the bed was up against. With the baby in the center, it meant he wouldn’t be able to sleep pressed against Isabel, which wasn’t fair. It just wouldn’t do, not at all, but when he tried to shift things a bit, Isabel sleepily growled at him, her elbow coming out fast and mean for his hip. 

Clearing his throat, “Isabel.”

“Mph,” her hand instantly moving to check the little terror thing he had brought to their quarters. 

“Isabel,” more sharply.

“Wha?” she mumbled blearily, squirming herself more comfortable and incidentally obliterating any space there may have been on the outside edge of the bed.

“Move over,” he nudged her.

“No,” eye slitting open briefly.

Growling, “Move over, I’m tired, I wish to sleep.”

“Plen’y o’room,” and she draped her free arm over her face, and promptly returned to sleep, and ignoring him.

Squinting at the bed, Raelag growled once more. There was too much chance he may roll over and squash the vile thing and that would upset Isabel, resulting in Malassa only knew what sort of problems in his future. Truly irritated, he sighed, reaching over the supine forms to snag his pillow and find a spot to sleep on the floor. Preferably one where Isabel wouldn’t step on him if she awoke to pace with the baby if it awakened upset again as it had earlier after a nap.

This had better _not_ become the norm of his life.

....

Raelag woke up to sing-song cooing and encouragements to ‘eat it all up’. Knuckling his eyes with a groan, he stretched and immediately regretted it. When Isabel came over, it was with that thing attached to her, feeding, and while it wasn’t a bad vision, he sort of really just wanted to hiss and crawl to somewhere he could sleep where his back wouldn’t hate him for it. Yet she was holding out her hand to him, repressing an amused smile as she helped him up, guiding him to the bed. He felt every year of his centuries, every old wound, and a few new ones, and he surmised he was making a very nasty, sour face by the expression on Isabel’s, which was one of poorly masked mirth. 

She urged him out of his shirt, then pressed him to lay down, “I need a cup of tea.”

Raelag grunted his acceptance...and then there was a weight on his chest, eyes the dark periwinkle of small, sweet mussels looked up at him just as disturbed by the development as him. “Uh...”

Isabel’s hand moved over his forehead, the other over the diapered creature’s back, “It’ll just be a moment, she needs a bit of tummy time and your heartbeat will soothe her while I go about my business.”

He had somehow managed to doze off when Isabel returned, scooping the, now sleeping and drooling, infant from his chest, moving and scooting so that her back could be pressed up against him, while she curled around the babe. It was a good development, but he was squashed too close to the wall so he pushed back, squirming and cuddling into her until _he_ finally had enough room. All the while Isabel was making amused huffing sounds at him as he fussed his way to comfort. 

If Raelag pretended, it wasn’t so bad. The baby on the other side of Isabel was from her womb and he had made it with her. Yes, if he could hold onto that little bit of fakery, he wouldn’t snarl. Now, so long as he didn’t have to put up with it for more than a day or two, it would be alright.

Isabel rescued him though as he rubbed his face into the softness of her hair, breathing deep the intoxicating smell of her, “Later on today, I’ll take her back down.”

“Mph.” But because he was a glutton for punishment, simultaneously praying that she would tell him that wasn’t necessary, “You like the little things. Why not keep one around all the time until you’re ready for one of your-” he corrected himself because it was probably important to take possession and personal interest, “- our own?”

Oh her chuckle sounded deliriously good and Raelag pressed himself closer into her back, arms tightening around her, “Raelag, your mind’s slipping, you can’t fool me. You’ll be utterly relieved once Mora is back in the nursery. Really, I’m not certain you should have even brought a baby up, they’re not the only way to get me to move about.”

“But it worked,” he pointed out. “You haven’t been eating and you enjoy them, and this one’s presence helped.”

Isabel slowly twisted around so she could tug him to lay his head on her shoulder. That was nice, Raelag liked that, and felt the tension seeping away from him as she rubbed a long circle that started at the top of his head and ended at the small of his back before starting up again. “Raelag, I’ve just gone through a physically, psychically, draining experience. It’s to be expected I’ll be out of sorts for a few days, you needn’t worry so.”

“I didn’t want you to suffer or get annoyed if I hovered too much,” Raelag justified, glad he didn’t sound petulant, which was how he found himself feeling. It must be the poor sleep and worry causing that. “Erunia suggested a baby would help. And I must admit that you are always in a peaceful mood after time spent in the nursery. You appear more relaxed than at any other time, they fulfill some requirement you have that I can’t give you.” Eyes closed, his brow beetled, “It’s also the only time I’ve seen joy on your face since before your wedding. So it must mean it’s been years, except for what you were able to gain somehow with Sareth. That they give you this...I would sleep on stone floors and listen to squalling, figure out how to soothe a baby myself, and learn to like toting one or more about like a sack in a sling if that was what it took for you to gain that sense of relief and peace.”

He settled in, listening to her heart, and thought that they would both doze back off, until, in a very small voice, resigned, “The birth was a thousand times worse than the Rite of True Nature. Thousands upon thousands of times worse. I don’t even know how I survived or why. The first ‘midwives’, for the most part, appeared to delight in making it even worse, until - strangely enough, much as I hate the bitch - Biara took over. Then it went a little easier, but it was endless nightmare...something broke inside me, Raelag...” He found himself struggling with the need to hunt for an entrance to Sheogh to slaughter every single demon he could find, but Isabel continued. “Something tore and broke, Raelag, I probably can’t ever have another child. Sometimes I can feel it, feel how it’s all wrong inside, ruined, mangled. You speak of being content to have a baby with me, while you find them so difficult to be around, certain my womb will somehow magically make one acceptable for you. It’s often all you speak on, a man who dislikes children so much, it’s all you seem to want to think about. Yet you didn’t stop to consider...what if I don’t want more, Raelag? What if I can’t have more, either?” A great, deep, tired sigh was heaved, “What’s more, is that I’m content with what I have. If, by some miracle, I was able to get pregnant - and that requires a miracle in itself, considering - keep the pregnancy, and have a healthy birth...I won’t have time to focus on what Sareth will become. I’ll be focused on parenting a new child, while my other one is molded into Kha-Beleth’s tool, leaving Ashan open to that attack. No, it’s not right for me to leave that duty - to Ashan, but more importantly, to Sareth - untended.”

It took Raelag a moment to realize what she said. What she _meant_. The words made sense, and he was still stumbling over the ‘damaged irreparably’ and ‘birth may be utterly impossible, if possible, almost entirely likely to be deadly’ and the last bit. It was the last bit that was, in many ways, a million times more vile and cruel, for Raelag knew without a doubt how big Isabel’s heart was. For her to be able to bestow so very much love upon others, and thousands of degrees more on those who were closest to her, it indicated just how important and adored her son was.

...And she was speaking of killing him. Killing him to spare Ashan, but also, to spare Sareth, even if the child didn’t understand. Isabel was planning on training herself to that perceived eventuality. By her words, she didn’t believe anything else could happen, steeling herself against such a terrible fate.

All this was just a waiting period for Isabel. 

For the moment he couldn’t do anything about the one problem. For the other, he could at least check. Slipping a hand over the softly veiled muscle of her abdomen, Raelag opened up his senses, finding the nature magic that still sat somewhere inside him, and searched. Scar tissue was sensed, damage, but he couldn’t tell if it was any worse internally compared to her external scars. It didn’t seem to be, but fertility wasn’t his forte. Preventing pregnancy, now that he could do, or even hold a pregnancy back, in the wings, waiting for a more convenient moment. He’d done that often enough with animals under his care. Raelag’s cautious assessment for the moment was that it would be possible and safe for her to give birth. It was just getting pregnant and keeping that pregnancy that would be difficult. Or at least that’s what he thought he was seeing on her insides. 

He would make sure the best, most experienced, and kindest of the matriarchs and maidens - whichever group they came from, Raelag didn’t care - had a look at Isabel to dispel any of her fears. Or, if they could, repair any physical damage done. Because, as much as the idea appalled him, getting Isabel with child, would be the best way to prevent her from going after Sareth and causing her to kill her son. Raelag would have Erunia start the search, listening, and if he gained word, Raelag would find the boy, or young man, and decide if Sareth could be saved from Kha-Beleth’s plans, or, if Sareth must be slain. But most important of all: Raelag would _never_ let Isabel go through that act, it would utterly, completely, irrevocably, destroy her down to her last spec, possibly even obliterate her soul, so that not even many turns in Asha’s cocoon could ever mend it. As wrong as it would be to plant a seed in Isabel without her being desirous of children, this was, by far and away, really and truly for her protection.

And Raelag would hate himself for it when he did it, because he had no right to put that on her, not after everything she had gone through - it would be bad enough if she was almost entirely unscathed, left free of trauma - this would be worse to take that decision and choice from her. 

Withdrawing his magic gently, he refocused on her, “If you change your mind, it looks possible, safe, as well. But I’d have someone more familiar with pregnancy in people check, my skills lay far more towards four legged types.” Adding as he stroked her stomach just below the navel and above the waist of her pants, “The trick would be to get a pregnancy to stick long enough for the babe to be viable upon birthing, rather than the birthing itself.”

Isabel’s head shifted on the pillow and she looked at him, pensive, a little worried, and curious - just not in a purely negative fashion he guessed, “Why are you so set on this, Raelag?” Haltingly, “Is it because to make a baby, we would have to have sex? And you think...think I’m not going to otherwise?”

He blinked several times, rapidly, propping up on his elbow to look at her fully, “Firstly, if you wanted a baby, I wouldn’t care who you lay with to get it, so long as you wanted it. Secondly, there are ways around that, which don’t require sex. An example would be a small pitcher filled with freshly spilled seed that had its contents poured into a somewhat inserted tube all controlled by yourself alone, that would work. Thirdly, if you never want to have sex, or at least, not with me, I gain more from you than sex. What you give me is more important than inserted body parts accompanied by movement, because if it isn’t what makes you feel happy, good, safe, and pleased, then it certainly won’t do any of that for me either. I’d rather spend the next two hundred years certain that you would want to walk with me, sleep beside me frequently, kiss me and let me kiss you, talk together, and be content that way, than be assured of five decades of all that as well as sex.” Reiterating, “You give to me things I never thought I would ever have, and I’ll take that above anything else.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re so interested in getting me with child, Raelag,” Isabel looked torn, like she wanted to press him about those things he said, because - he was fairly sure - that she liked the fact that that was how he felt. Instead, she was dogged in her pursuit. “I’ve been used for my womb before. And before that, my entire purpose was also for my womb, though it wasn’t used, it just hadn’t gotten the chance to be, it was always going to be my greatest use to others.”

Taken in that light, his words and deeds that he had meant to be reassuring and comforting, probably didn’t look very good. To say nothing of the decision he had already come to, which, after her statements, made that decision best to not think on, even though he would follow through. Raelag carefully thought over his words, choosing them one by one, “At the abbey...you gave to everyone. Loved everyone, like you said, love grew with the sharing. Looking back, comparing to actions you’ve taken now, I see that you were...were maternal. You were a mother to one and all, no matter the difference in age. Giving unconditional, supportive love, to try and meet the need around you.” Rubbing his nose against his bicep so he didn’t have to halt the anchoring sensation of touching her, moving it higher, away from her uterus so she didn’t get the wrong impression. So he hoped. “There is a thing in you, a need, that is in your makeup, bonded to you, so intrinsically, that there is no separation. You get something from giving that I think only very lucky...blessed...parents gain from loving their child. But you gain it from loving one and all.” Clearing his throat, “You’re...you’re a human embodiment of what Sylanna and Shalassa are described as being best at. Fearsomely joyous in your love for all you claim as your children, wise and intuitive in meeting their needs. And when you - when you are in the nursery, or when you return - you are at peace in a way I haven’t seen since Edgar was made to leave. You have had so much taken from you, yet you still are able to love, and...and that need...it must be met. I wish you to have everything you need, want, and deserve. To gain...to gain the sort of -” Raelag got lost, not sure how else to say it. “Everyone is precious to you, but a child of yourself, is something - one, is someone, that would be able to give to you the way you give to all.” Hitching an awkward shrug, eyes downcast, “Maybe having a child with you, whomever the source of seed was, if I got to share as best I could in the process, because it really and truly isn’t important to me so long as you’re satisfied with the source of it, would be a way to insure that the world knows the joy of your unabashed adoration for all of Ashan and its people, forever. And maybe I could be part of something truly good. Something real and true that can never be undone, sullied or taken away.”

Just how did Isabel turn him into a rambling buffoon so easily? He was worse than some tepid jongollour’s recitation of bad love stories. What did it matter that what he choked on, botched, and all around babbled, was a sort of ungainly summation of how he felt? Hardly impressive for a man who was always able to sway women to his bed, though he often preferred bartering or paying for it. Unless it was with a human, then it could be fun, and so what if he left some valuable behind for them? It was a thank you in those cases for the gift of shared pleasure. No, Raelag was hardly making sense, and he wished he could unspeak it all, and start over. But the words were out, insipid and probably plaintive. 

A heavy sigh was heaved - again. That wasn’t a good sign. Raelag was preparing to mumble that he was a moron and if he could have a few minutes to better compose something, it would be less nonsensical. “Raelag, it doesn’t matter if it carries my blood. At some point, maybe we’ll adopt one in need. How I feel and how I am, it’s not...it’s not some magical quality that came about as traits from my parents the way my hair or eyes or height are. How I am, it’s...”

Quickly he moved to point out as she searched for words of her own, “My father has a solitary soul incompatible with people. His other offspring are also this way -”

“I thought you said you weren’t certain?” frowning.

“No, I said I didn’t know if his other progeny passed it on, but they were like him, like me, personality can be a trait passed on. I was moulded to work better and not be like him in spite of my natural inclinations. I was broken of it,” not thinking that phrase through, but it’s what came free. “It’s a trait that is specific, special or at least, unique. And you are all of that, and more. Whatever you are, it will pass on, it will be shared with any you birth, for good or ill. Nurture can only change so much of nature, Isabel. Even elves forget this, even Mother did, because no matter how much my upbringing pushed me away from my nature, it still exists and it’s unchanged. Just not openly expressed.” Pouring conviction into it, Raelag locked his gaze with hers, adding a touch of glamour so she couldn’t look away, “Sareth is made up of two halves. One, is you. The other, Kha-Beleth. Kha-Beleth underestimated you, repeatedly, and he will, as always, underestimate the core being of a person. He did that to me, to you, to Kiril, and he will repeat that mistake with Sareth. Sareth has a chance to shine with the same nature that you carry, you granted him that gift, that choice in that dark place.” He shook his head, holding her gaze still, “No one else could give him that chance. Only you. And any children you bear, they too will have that nature in them, and they will pass it on.”

Proving her own strength with the ease of which she was able to look away once he stopped speaking, so easily it was like he hadn’t even worked that minor magic, “Raelag, Ashan can’t afford for me to think that way. For me to release my responsibility to that. What I want overall from life...I can’t have it, not when something like that hangs in the balance.”

“What do you want?” Raelag asked softly. “If you didn’t have to worry.”

“As the world is now?” another sigh, her gaze slipping with telling predictability towards the baby her other arm was carefully around, creating a nest, without picking it up. If he recalled, keeping babies flat while sleeping was supposed to be better for the development of their spine. Odd how random things Mother said to him would pop into his mind. But Isabel didn’t seem to realize she had looked straight to the child, instead swinging her gaze to view their bedroom. “I would like to be able to return the way you feel about me, to you. To be able to let go enough so that...” It was her turn to be awkward obviously, huzzah, he wasn’t alone in such fumblings. “One moment I find myself wanting nothing more than to draw you over me, to feel you touching me. Then the next, I blank. My mind disappears, forgetting my every intention to reclaim my own body for my own enjoyment, and to share it with you, and then I’m...seeing fel flames in irises, my struggles completely useless. It’s _my body_ and I **want it back** , but...but... Then I’m just tired after that flash goes away. It all happens so fast, so fast I can’t even feel fear or anger, and then I’m just...just tired, Raelag. If I could let that go, if I could let that go, maybe I’d be able to dare to hope, instead of be so tired of it. I’m so _tired_ of feeling used up, and when I can feel the sparks of indignation, they give me strength for a little while to push back. But it was years, it was years there...and it was more than a year as Nicolai’s personal bloodpig.” She snorted, and it was a blow to his gut, for it sounded so cynical, a sound he expected from himself three decades ago, not her. “Xana and Kiril. Demons. They, for whatever their reasons, befriended me, took care of me, helped me. Xana kept me alive, for Kha-Beleth believed her to be his most ‘trusted’ agent or just after Biara in that department. She’s the one who told Kha-Beleth that Sareth’s entire survival hinged on my living and providing for him until he was weaned. She got me to talk about it, Kiril made me learn to sit around a ma- man capable of harming me, in a calm manner, and speaking like a normal person to them.”

Raelag listened as she spoke, trying to see the time from her viewpoint. It bothered him, because, logically, he was aware Isabel would chide him for seeing the day to day time as far worse than it was. No doubt he invented horrible scenes that never happened, but it was easier than trying to face down the numbing, grinding down that came from enforced inaction, being prisoner, and allowed no real movement. It wasn’t a sort of torture that was grandiose and obvious, but it could break a mind, spirit, soul, and body even better than hot pliers, knives, coals, and other, physical implements meant to do harm.

After, when she puttered out of words, when the infant woke up and wanted its meal, Isabel remained where she was, as did he, his head on her shoulder. The baby was on her chest, belly down, face mashed into the very rounded, soft pyramid of Isabel’s breast . It looked at him time to time, puzzled, and sometimes when it appeared like it would unlatch to voice some sort of piercing complaint, Isabel’s hand would come down to tickle an ear, play with a small fist, or stroke that back. Raelag realized the baby may be seeing him as competition - he wasn’t, the _baby_ was the intruder, not him! - as Isabel was also stroking him in the same sort of method. How very novel, the thought it was capable of such an idea. Then again...

Other than the nice memories of exploring his small world as a very young boy, his other first memories usually had to do with not liking anyone coming too close to Mother. He remembered the humming burr of her voice echoing in her lungs. If he really focused, Raelag could hear angry, toddler growls, at someone unknown trying to touch Mother...maybe it had been someone trying to kiss her, it was fuzzy. 

There was a point when Mother had been...associated with Arniel. Multiple times actually, especially after his birth, even though she had rejected Arniel planting Raelag in her belly in the first place. She once told him when he asked, back when Arniel made his announcement, which subsequently led to Mother distancing Tarlad from Irollen, that Arniel had been the man she intended to gain Raelag from. That Arniel had been intelligent, and thoughtful, who had been in tune with the land. As to why she had instead turned him aside, though she was in heat, for a known eccentric, warped malcontent druid who was in rut... Apparently Raelag’s sire had ‘handed Arniel’s ass to him’ as Mother stated bluntly in a combat...which led to the revelation that Arniel was a violent, vicious and sore loser when mating was on the line, hamstringing Raelag’s father, and then advancing on Mother. Mother, of course, being who she was even back when so young, hadn’t put up with that, and ignored her own lust’s call to take the cunning Arniel. In the end, Raelag was produced. 

Mother claimed - repeatedly - that she didn’t regret it, reassuring Raelag with a hand curling with his, that for his struggle with his solitary soul, it had resulted in him being empathic to the needs of the whole. She used to kiss his forehead, even long after he was an adult, holding his face in her hands, telling him his strength was his stubbornness that wouldn’t allow him to let go of whatever he had accepted as ‘belonging’. That it had led him to be cunning with that possessiveness and that empathy, because while he couldn’t always clearly see the individuals and their minds, needs, joys or suffering, he could still view it as an entire being and protect it. 

Mental wandering circled back on itself as the baby was finally finished with its meal, and Isabel’s stroking hand on him halted as she carefully guided the creature to sit up just so, and rub its back in an upward motion. Quickly Raelag was reminded _why_ this was a vital thing to do, as the thing burped loud and wetly, and it was an action that had the blue eyes widening in surprise...only to be accompanied by an equally malodorous bout of flatulence. Even when he was little, Raelag hadn't understood the delight others took in bodily functions, laughing and making jokes about them. He used to try and copy those jokes, generally failing, and causing everyone to look at him like he was off his rocker. It's much of why he used sarcasm instead - tone applied to words that could be taken in a 'nice' way, but the expression, cadence, and inflection would warp it around into a barb. Quite effective. But while Isabel snorted a laugh at the baby, either from the smell, sound, or its expression (possibly even his own), he just was left trying to understand - yet again - what was so funny about the sound gas made when exiting the body.

“Messy-messy Mora,” Isabel carefully pulled away from him so she could sit up, but Raelag was already writhing free of the bed to find one of the diapers he had brought, and had to hide his look of distaste as she began cleaning the child...while it was still on their bed. However, she was deft and somehow managed to clean up the awful mess that got everywhere in infantile crevessases without any of it winding up on their mattress. Or even her hands. Raelag couldn’t boast that he ever managed to be quite _that_ efficient. “Oh you’ll be happier when you can do this on your own and won’t get everything all up in your little bits, Mora-bobbin.”

He would be happier too, at least if he had to deal with the nasty thing taking up frequent residence in their quarters.

**Author's Note:**

> There appears to be no Heroes of Might and Magic 5 or 6 fic, which is really just a total shame. Isabel is a fan 'favourite' for many, due in part, I believe, to the voice actress' frequently sharp voice. In reality, such a voice would be perfect for a battlefield, but it isn't the prettiest, softest voice in existence. Secondly, Isabel is a woman with her own mission, unwilling to listen to some unknown, unvouched for outsider that, while helpful, isn't necessarily so important. So the question I asked myself during a playthrough - for all her mistakes and unslacking devotion to duty, is she a truly bad queen? No, she does everything she can with the information on hand. She's not aware of all the same information as the player.
> 
> Raelag is a bitingly intelligent character, but after playing through HoMMVI and all its expansions, I've come to the conclusion of why he is described as a man who plans and never shares those plans with others, is because he is so introverted that his interactions with others are almost always calculated and planned, because he can't handle actual social situations. Not that this is bad, but for a man who was meant to rule, it can be difficult to be forced to deal with people day in, day out, when all you really want is a quiet spot in a garden, library, or to go hunting in peace. Yet he is still a person, and craves connection, he is just far more choosy about it, because he, for lack of a better description, gets 'peopled out' very easily.


End file.
